


roses are red, roses are white

by Forever_in_Your_Heart



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Drama, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Intrigue, Lots of war/rebellions, Plotting, Romance, The Wars of the Roses, Wars of the Roses AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 14:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 196,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10946460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forever_in_Your_Heart/pseuds/Forever_in_Your_Heart
Summary: remember this as a tragedy, as a warning for those who covet the throne. a crown is always paid for in blood and no king or queen ever lives to see happily ever after.(but do not forget our glory, our victories, our heroics. history will record our failures, follies, weaknesses. you will witness our triumphs)





	1. a king of death and blood and bones

**Author's Note:**

> I've had to take certain liberties with the actual history of the Wars of the Roses (especially the dates) as well as with some of the HG characters (namely their ages), for this to work. Still, I hope you enjoy it, because as a giant history nerd, this is something I've been dying to write!

_roses are red, roses are white_   
_prologue_   
_a king of death and blood and bones_

Madge of Bedford is born to an England on the cusp of war, soon to run red with its own rebellious blood.

The year is 1453 and her mother falls terribly ill, nearly dies in childbed. Midwives rush about in a panic as the Duchess of Bedford turns ghostly pale, blood pooling on the floor and outside, Madge's father the Duke paces along the stone floors of the hall, worry gnawing at his nerves.

The healthy, screaming child is hurried away from her dying mother and the nurse that attends to her cannot hide her disappointment that the wilting Duchess couldn't have given her husband a son and heir. What use will a small daughter have to so great a lord?

(greater than you could imagine)

* * *

The Duchess of Bedford does not die, manages to cling feebly to life but the midwives and physicians are clear, she will have no more children.

The newly christened Madge of Bedford will be her parents' only legacy.

(and what a legacy it will be)

* * *

Lady Madge of Bedford is adored and cherished, showered with the affection her parents cannot give to the bevy of children they had planned to have. She spends her early years raised in the comfort of her father's grand estates, far from court life and all its intrigues. Her father is the only one to travel all the way to London, always brings her back a gift, an exquisite dress or beautiful doll.

(she does not notice what he brings back for her mother, whispered words and frightened looks)

The world outside is rather foreign to her, the tumultuous landscape of England entirely unknown but then she enters her ninth year and with it, comes the invitation.

Her father returns from a session at Court but he is not cheery as he usually is, looks older even to Madge's young eyes. Her mother pales as she looks at him and Madge begins to feel anxious, looks from one parent to the other in question. Her father takes note of her and smiles, though it does not reach his eyes.

"Would you like to go to Court, my love? The King and Queen have requested that you and your lady mother accompany me to the Christmas celebrations. Would you like to meet the King and Queen?" he asks and Madge nods a little eagerly, perhaps not quite as dignified as a young lady should be. She cannot imagine anything more exciting that going to glorious royal palaces for the festivities, meeting the great King and his Queen. She is lost in the wonder of it, does not notice the silent words that pass between her parents, the fear in every line of their faces.

It wouldn't have mattered though, would it?

What the King commands, they follow.

What other choice is there?

(death)

* * *

Time moves far too slow for the young Madge, eager and bursting to go to London.

Her father commissions a new dress for the occasion and Madge feels like a princess in periwinkle blue. She concentrates with new passion on her lessons, is determined to be the perfect lady, impeccably mannered and well versed in court etiquette. She practices dancing as often as she can, is so short only one of her father's pages is suitable as a partner. He is clearly an unwillingly partner, only there because her father has insisted but Madge hardly notices, is far too focused on each and every step.

While Madge dreams of the beauty of England's royal court, her mother grows pale and ill, spends long hours of the day in bed. Her father too looks weary, nervous lines deepening in his face. There is a fear in Bedford Castle, a terror of the King she has never met that Madge does not quite notice, too caught up in her own excitement. To Madge, the King and Queen are fairy tales, shining and noble.

Soon, though, they will be her nightmares.

* * *

They leave for London at the end of November, in the hope of arriving before the weather reaches its worst.

Madge attempts to remain composed as she sits with her sickly mother in a litter, her father riding beside them. Her parents have told her little of the royal family, but she knows King Coriolanus has been king for many, many years, far longer than Madge has been alive. She knows the Queen, Enobaria, is from Anjou, though she cannot quite remember if Anjou is in France, or just very near it. And finally, she knows Prince Cato, heir to all of England, is near her own age, perhaps a year or two older.

Madge cannot wait to meet them, imagines the Queen will be beautiful and kind, the King just and strong, Prince Cato handsome and brave.

(she is wrong)

* * *

Madge has never been in a city like London, is breathless with awe at the sheer size of it, at the throngs of people spread throughout the streets. The smell would normally horrify her but she barely registers it, doesn't even notice how gray her mother's skin has become as they trundle through the city. It is magnificent and Madge is instantly enamored, never wants to return home. She cannot understand how her parents could choose to live on their estate in the country when they could live here, in the jewel of King Coriolanus' kingdom. Westminster Palace looms ahead of them, majestic and awe inspiring, steals the breath from Madge's lungs.

"Look Mama," she whispers in excitement, her mother moaning in response. Madge doesn't notice, can't take her eyes away from Westminster, her imagination racing ahead of her. Magnificent balls, handsome knights, beautiful gowns, they flitter across her mind like birds, bright and mesmerizing.

When the litter stops, when Westminster towers darkly above them, when her mother is so weak and grayed she has to be carried down, Lady Madge of Bedford blooms, unfolding like the rarest blossom. Springs bounce in each of her steps, thrills shine in her blue eyes and her smile stetches wider with every second. The Duke and Duchess of Bedford are quiet, menaced by the evil lurking in Westminster's halls but Madge, Madge comes alive for the very first time.

(oh, how times will change)

* * *

Madge is fairly certain her insides are humming when they go to present themselves to the King, her ears buzzing like summer bees. Her mother leans heavily into her father, each step slow and labored but Madge is the opposite, has to keep stopping herself from running. She shivers all over with anticipation when the great doors to the King's audience chamber are opened, her stomach writhing with snakes.

A smartly dressed herald announces them and they step inside, Madge's eyes magnetized to the heavy gilded thrones at the far end of the room. There is a great puprle banner hanging behind them on the wall, with the King's badge stitched in with fine thread. Madge feels a tingle in her spine as she looks at it, a wolf wearing a crown and surrounded by the red roses of the king's royal house of Lancaster. She drops her gaze to the people sitting in those great thrones, her breath freezing in her lungs.

Prince Cato stands to the King's right, dressed in fine burgundy velvet. He is young, with still rounded cheeks and fair hair, but there's something in the darkness of his eyes and the curve of his smirk that makes Madge shy, her heart thudding with nerves. The Queen sits on the King's left, wearing a sumptuous golden gown dripping with jewels. Rubies dangle from her ears, emeralds shimmer at her throat and sapphires shine on her wrists, the whole of her glittering like a precious gem. There are pearls woven into her dark hair and she smirks just like her son, her teeth sharp and pointed. Madge almost flinches, something foreboding slinking into her chest and she rests her eyes on the King then, the one man who holds all of England in his fists. He is much, much older than his wife, his hair a snowy white, his face lined and waxy. His lips are swollen and red, blood kissing the corner and Madge stifles a gasp as he looks at her, his eyes frozen over with ice.

The Duke of Bedford sweeps into a low bow, "your Majesties," he murmurs and then his Duchess wilts into a curtsy, her skin nearly translucent. Madge hurriedly drops into her own curtsy, chest feeling tight. They wait like that, heads bowed as the King's observes them, his eyes prickling over Madge's skin.

"You may rise," he says, a note of humor in his voice that has Madge wondering if she missed a joke. They all stand and Madge tries to remember her manners, but she can't help but take in the royal family with wide eyes. Prince Cato sneers at her and she frowns, would make a face but knows she isn't allowed.

"It has been too long, our dear Margaret," the King says, addressing Madge's mother. The Duchess of Bedford doesn't meet his eyes, her voice almost too quiet to hear.

"Indeed, your Majersty."

"We insist you visit more often. We won't have you hidden away from us in the countryside." His tone is almost light, almost joking but there's enough of an edge to it that Madge's father stiffens and her mother closes her eyes with a pained expression. Madge is confused, because the King is speaking as if he knows her mother, but neither of her parents have ever mentioned any sort of relationship before (she's also wondering why he keeps saying "we" when he seems to mean "I"). She wants to ask them but can't here in front of the royal family, Prince Cato's mean eyes digging into the side of her head. She wants to glare back but knows she isn't meant to, well brought up young ladies aren't supposed to glare.

(manners are sometimes dreadful)

"And this must be your daughter, then?" the King asks and Madge startles as she realizes he's talking about her.

"Yes, your Grace," her father answers and Madge turns in the King's direction, but doesn't raise her eyes, knows that would be improper. She can feel the King's heavy gaze on her and it makes her hot and uncomfortable. He doesn't speak, scrutinizing her and she holds her breath, anxious to hear what he has to say.

She never finds out, the oak doors exploding open before he can pass any sort of judgement and she nearly jumps out of her dress in surprise. The two doors crash back against the walls and a well dressed man about her father's age comes striding in with purpose.

"The Duke of York!" the herald calls in a shocked voice and the King frowns deeply. The Duke marches right up to the King, bypassing Madge and her parents, and drops into a hurried bow.

"What is the meaning of this?" the King asks in a rough, unhappy voice.

"Your Grace, four men have just been apprehended at a local pub. It is reported they were in the midst of plotting an assassination." There is a pause and the Duke rises up from his bow, face dark. "According to the Captain of the Guard, their plan was against your Majesty."

Madge knows it is undignified but cannot help her mouth from dropping open. Why would someone want to plot against the King (she's not really sure what assassination is, but it can't be good)? The King does not look frightened though or even angry. He smiles, wide enough that his lips look like they're cracking, blood dribbling down onto his chin.

"Well, Lord York, tell the Captain that we will punish these men immediately. Send them to the square."

There's something ominous in the way he says "the square" and Madge wonders what could be there. The Duke of York looks startled, in a bad way, his eyes widened with what could be outrage.

"Your Majesty, they have had no trial. We do not know all the facts."

" _You_ may not, but we know enough. Give the order, Lord York." There is a brutal finality in the King's voice and the Duke straightens up, his spine stiff, his face an emotionless mask.

"Of course, your Grace."

"They are to be hung, drawn and quartered. Make sure everything is prepared."

The King is smiling again, wide and amused. The Duke turns and sweeps from the room, the door echoing closed behind him. The King stands and claps his hands, fresh and excited.

"Come along, we shall all witness justice being dealt on these traitors." His voice is raspy with anticipation and there is a cruelty in his eyes, one that makes Madge move closer to her mother, knotting her fingers in her dress. Prince Cato vibrates, his expression lit up with joy and the Queen bares her teeth in a grin, all the royal family clearly enthused at what's about to happen.

"My daughter, your Majesty-" her father begins but the King silences him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"It will be good for the girl to see what becomes of traitors," he says, barely casting a glance at her hidden by her mother's skirts and there is something about the King that reminds Madge of the monsters under her bed.

* * *

Madge follows her parents with nervous curiosity, wondering just what "hung, drawn and quartered" means. Her mother can barely walk, her father having to support her and he looks terrified, so terrified Madge feels the sudden urge to cry. Fear flutters in her bones and all her shining dreams start to crumble, crushed to dust beneath the King's booted feet.

He leads them up onto a large wooden viewing platform hung with silks and with two large thrones, one each for the King and his Queen. It has clearly been here for quite some time, shows no sign of being fresjly erected. Whatever happens in this square, clearly the royal family watches it often. The Queen sits down on her throne and Prince Cato eagerly throws himself against the railing at the edge of the platform, desperate to be as close to the action as possible. Madge and her family shuffle over to the Queen's right and Madge looks out at the square with trepidation. There is a scaffold hanging with four ropes and four large tables with four smaller beside them. _What could those be for?_ she wonders _._ Beyond that is a crowd of London's citizens, hemmed in by palace guards in sturdy armor. The people gathered look pale and frightened, hunched over and clumped closely together.

King Coriolanus moves to stand beside his son at the front of the platform and as if summoned, four burley executioners arrive, each dragging a man in chains. The King's eyes are narrowed in approval and his tongue comes out to run over his bleeding lips. Madge bites her own lip and fastens a hand in her father's doublet for comfort. The King opens his mouth to speak but the Duke of York steps to his side with urgent eyes.

"My King, these men are peasants, hungry and desperate for their families. They could not possibly have succeeded in their plot. Might there be a lighter sentence you could impose?"

King Coriolanus does not look at him, eyes shadowed.

"A lighter sentence?" he questions, voice sending shivers across Madge's skin. The Duke nods.

"Perhaps a simple beheading? Mercy might dissuade others from pursuing such avenues."

His words hang in the air for a moment before the King turns to him, eyes dark like a midnight sky.

"My cousin of York," he begins, poison in each of his words. "These men are traitors. They have conspired to commit high treason against the King's person. If we pardoned them, we would be condoning their actions. Do you condone treason against your king?"

The air feels suddenly colder and no one speaks. The Duke of York's face is pinched tight and King Coriolanus regards him with glittering eyes, something dark Madge doesn't understand hovering between them. Her father places a sweaty hand on her shoulder and finally the Duke of York's expression wilts, eyes drooping and closing.

"Of course not, your Majesty," he says, voice almost lost in the wind and the King smirks, red stains on his teeth. He turns to face the crowd, made up of haggard faces and glassy eyes. Madge is terrified but doesn't know why, a low whimper struggling from her mother's lips.

"These men have tried to assault their King, who has been anointed by God himself! The Lord has preserved us and condemned them, for there is no power on earth great enough to topple His mighty King! For their heresy and treason, we give you their blood! Let it quench the unholy fires of any foolish enough to believe they could depose a King, set upon the throne by the Lord himself!"

King Coriolanus' voice booms but no one cheers, the silence of the crowd like a thunderstorm at midnight. The nooses are placed around the necks of all four men and her father's fingers dig painfully into Madge's shoulder. One of the men whispers a prayer and another starts to cry, tears and snot mixing on his chin. The King takes a seat in his specially erected throne, draped in red velvet and smiles, his eyes bright bright bright.

He waves his hand and the floor beneath the four men disappears. Madge squeaks in shock as they thrash about, legs kicking wildly. She clamps her hands over her eyes to block out the sight but she can still hear their gurgling, choking struggle and Prince's Cato laughter, enthusiastic and energetic. Then comes a series of heavy thuds and Madge's lowers her hands to see the men have been cut down. They breathe heavily and _oh,_ she thinks, _they're still alive_. She feels relief but then confusion, because _hung, drawn and quartered. What does drawn and quartered mean?_

Executioners in black haul the men up onto the tables and strap them down, her father's fingers bruising on her skin. Her mother swoons slightly, sagging against her husband and Madge hates the fear needling her heart. Each executioner turns to the smaller tables beside the ones where the men are tied down and pick up silver tools that glint in the late November sun. _What are they-_

Madge would scream but her voice seems to have died in her throat, the Executioners carving each man open. She flinches back and squeezes her eyes closed, hands clamped tight over her ears to block out their screams. It doesn't work, their agony cutting into her as they are disemboweled and her stomach curdles with horror. It goes on forever and Madge wants to wake up, safe and warm in her bed.

Silence settles like a shroud over the square and Madge chances to open her eyes. There is a moment of suspended terror and then she watches four axes rise, fall and four heads roll across the scaffold, severed from their bodies. The executioners lift each dripping head and show them to the crowd, but no one cheers, all except the royal family who applauds heartily. Madge feels sick but the brutality isn't over, each man sawed into four equal parts.

Her mother collapses, blood coats the ground, the crowd is pale and lifeless and King Coriolanus smiles, wicked like the Devil himself.

Madge of Bedford is nine years old and she has learned a harsh lesson.

There are no fairy tails here.


	2. so wilts the red rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is a curse in her blood, one tearing England to pieces

_roses are red, roses are white_   
_part one_   
_now rises the sun of york_   
_chapter one_   
_so wilts the red rose_

It is the coldest Christmas Madge can remember.

It's everything she'd dreamed of and more, yet Madge cannot find any cheer. She is too young to truly understand what happened, but there is a black hole inside of her filled with fear, a fear that eats away at any joy she manages to discover. She should feel like a princess as she walks around the suite of rooms her family has been gifted, but instead she feels skittish and scared of shadows. Madge takes hesitant steps on the fur carpeting the stone floors to keep her feet warm and wants to sink her toes into it, wants to rejoice in the splendor around her but there's a prickle at the back of her neck, a tingle of something awful.

Her bed is large enough for her and several friends, covered in more pillows than she'll ever know what to do with. Delicate roses are etched into the wooden frame and she runs her fingers over them, traces the patterns with her nails. Red velvet curtains hang about the bed and the walls are adorned with finely threaded tapestries depicting battle scenes, the Virgin Mary and heroic deeds.

(Madge stares at those heroes each night before she climbs into bed, promises herself they're keeping her safe)

Her garments hang in a well carved wardrobe, a merry fire crackles in the hearth but it never fights away her chill and each item of dark wood furniture is glossy to the touch. She wishes she had flowers to put on every surface, to make the room feel bright and alive, but winter cold has killed them all.

(Madge almost believes they'd have withered anyway)

(there is something in the air at Westminster, something toxic)

Madge climbs into her great big bed and drowns in it, memories blending with nightmares to cling to her even in her waking hours. She stares at the panneled ceiling of her room, painted with roses, crowned wolves and King Coriolanus, and feels sick and lightheaded. The mesmerizing magic Madge had seen on her first foray into London has disappeared, replaced by the harsh light of day.

_I just want to go home_

_Let us just go home_

Fires blaze in every room, garlands are strewn across doorframes and banisters, and talented minstrels play music all day long but Madge does not feel the warmth or recognize the tunes, feels as horrible as her mother looks. Lady Bedford is pale and drawn, barely eats and speaks so quietly her words sound more like breaths. She withers and wastes under the King's dark eyes, but still attends every festivity, the hunts and feasts and masques, the performances and concerts and recitals. Her husband begins to lose his colour, rounded cheeks starting to thin, but the King doesn't seem to notice, greets them with oily smiles, offers them the best seats and the choicest foods and Madge's curiosity would usually ask why, but she is too dazed with horror to wonder.

The palace smells of holly and rich food, an army of cooks slaving in the kitchen for every hour of the day and each meal is a feast, course after course after course. Madge can barely stomach it all, would feel like a glutton if she even tried but King Coriolanus' court is one of extravagance and excess, always loud and full of people. The celebration never seems to end but Madge is listless and quiet, can't muster any excitement at magnificent decorations or beautifully dressed lords and ladies. Her father points them out to her, trying to rise her to emotion, to life.

"That is Lord Brutus, Duke of Somerset. He is a favourite of the King and Queen."

(hard and mean with angry eyes, Madge is not surprised)

"Over there is the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Boggs. The King's half-brother."

(younger and darker, he looks nothing like his brother. Madge cannot help but find that comforting)

"Beside him is his nephew, Finnick, Earl of Richmond."

(slightly older than her and already handsome, Madge would have swooned if she didn't see blood every time she closed her eyes)

"Ah yes, and that is the Earl of Richmond's mother, the Lady Alma and her new husband, Lord Heavensbee."

(she is grey and stern, he is colourful and laughing. What an odd combination)

(the Duke of York is nowhere to be seen)

None of her observations are enough to dislodge the monster taken root in her mind. The King fills every corner of her, dark eyed and cackling as heads roll. He looms over the festivities from his raised throne, dressed always in exquisite garments trimmed with fur. His bony fingers are weighed down by rings studded with every jewel she can name and even some she can't, and a glittering crown sits on his head, bright gold with dazzling gems. It presses down on him and makes him hunch, his neck bending under the weight.

He orders performances every night, but instead of Saint George and the Dragon or Noah's Arc, these players act out scenes all about the glory of His Majesty, King Coriolanus of England. Shimmering plates of solid gold piled with sugared deserts are laid before them as poets rhapsodize about the King and Madge finds herself unable to eat, the sweets appearing almost grotesque.

Madge counts the days as they pass, looks out snowy windows and prays they will soon return home.

(if anyone ever bothered to ask, Madge would say Westminster is more a prison than a palace)

* * *

Their last night in London finally comes, capped by the most opulent ball.

Madge is determined to enjoy herself, refuses to wallow in the same hole of misery she's been trapped in since they arrived here. She is tired of nightmares and fear and sadness, wants to have one night where everything is bright and lovely and wonderful. A fool's hope perhaps, but Madge promises herself she will be happy tonight, that she will greet this new year of 1463 with nothing but smiles. This will be a year of joy.

_Not even a king shall take that from me_ she vows as her maids help her dress. They lace her into a white kirtle threaded through with silver and then her new periwinkle houppelande, the fabric decorated with delicate fleur-de-lis made of pearls and a collar of white velvet. They accent it with a white girdle jeweled with sapphires, then weave blue ribbons and pearls into her hair and Madge runs hands over the silk of her dress, enthusiasm flagging in her heart. One of the maids hangs a pretty string of diamonds and pearls around her neck and Madge looks at her reflection, tries to muster up some excitement. This should be a dream come true, after all, how often does she get to wear such finery?

_Stop it, be happy_

Madge pinches colour into her cheeks, puts on her rings, a ruby one from a grandmother who'd died before she was born, a sapphire one received as a gift from her father and affixes a silver and turquoise brooch from her mother to the front of her kirtle.

"You look beautiful, my lady," one of the maids tells her and Madge forces herself to preen like she usually would.

This shouldn't be so hard.

_Just tonight, just be happy tonight._

They dab her with rosewater and then she steps outside her chamber to greet her parents, both of them in their very best garments. They walk down together but don't share a word, Westminster's forbidding walls leeching the life right out of them. Elegantly dressed lords and ladies crowd the halls and Madge feels a small thrill at the sight and focuses on it, tries to force that spark into an inferno. Her eyes drink in everything they pass and she desperately wants this night to be one worth remembering, wants to preserve just _one_ happy memory from this trip.

The great gilded doors to the banqueting hall are already thrown open and Madge enters behind her parents, a tiny, tiny part of her managing to marvel at the golden festivities. She inhales deeply, the whole room hung with sweet smelling wreaths and garlands. Minstrels play lively music and the floor is scrubbed so clean it almost shines. Thousands of candles burn while roaring fires keep the room warm and silver bells jangle from the wrists and ankles of dancing girls dressed in floaty, nearly transparent costumes. A tiny sigh flutters in Madge's chest, in awe at the splendor and she looks up at the King's table, raised higher than all the rest. The royal family will be the last to arrive and the room feels brighter without them, the holidays slightly more merry.

Madge sits at the long banqueting table assigned to the various children and younger nobles, each one dressed in glittering finery. The wood shimmers in the candlelight and the handsome Earl of Richmond, thirteen year old Finnick Odair, sits at the head of the table, resplendent in emerald green. He talks excitedly, too far away for Madge to hear, but his very green eyes light up, his golden smile stretched wide. Heads turn in his direction, girls tittering excitedly and Madge guesses Prince Cato must be seething with jealousy.

(she feels the start of a genuine smile at the thought)

Madge looks around the table and tries to remember everyone's names but they blur in her head, her misery these past weeks having foiled her memory. A dark haired girl in purple sits to her left, but doesn't speak, her gaze lingering on Finnick of Richmond and Madge looks at her from the corner of her eye. She wracks her brain but honestly has no idea if they've been introduced before, an utter blank filling up her mind.

_Do I introduce myself and hope for the best? But what if we've already met? What if I insult her?_

After too many minutes spent agonizing, she decides not to say anything, not wanting to risk it but then she remembers her promise to herself, that she will be happy tonight, will enjoy herself. She plasters on a smile and hopes she looks sincere.

"Hello, I'm Madge of Bedford. My father's the Duke," she greets and the girl turns abruptly, lovely ocean eyes wide. She continues to stare at Madge in surpise, as if someone speaking to her is the most baffling possibility and Madge feels her smile start to wilt. Perhaps she'd have been better off remaining quiet. The girl ducks her head.

"My apologies, my lady. I'm Annie. Anne! Of Oxford. My father's the Earl."

Madge can see Anne's cheeks flush pink and wishes she would look up, but she supposes the daughter of a duke outranks that of an earl. Madge smiles as warmly as she can manage.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Lady Anne."

"And you Lady Madge."

A herald blares on his horn before they can say anymore and a deep hush falls over the room, every head turned to the doors. Madge feels her chest tighten.

"His Majesty, King Coriolanus!" the herald bellows and everyone stands. The men doff their hats and bow, the women all curtsy and the King sweeps in with an amused smirk, his lips smeared over with blood. Madge focuses in on that, that one disturbing detail and cannot help but wonder why his lips are always painted and dripping with blood. Is he diseased? Is it contagious?

He does not look sickly though, instead he glows, dressed in his finest houppelande of cloth of gold crusted with precious gems and a long ermine lined mantle that trails across the floor behind him. His hands twinkle with rings, his crown sparkles and the Queen beside him dazzles in a ruby red gown studded with diamonds, tourmalines and garnets. Prince Cato swaggers in behind them, his boots black and glossy, his doublet silvery and delicate. A golden coronet rests on his head and blends well with his sunny hair and Madge thinks he could be handsome if only he didn't make her so uneasy.

The royal family take their seats at the high table but the King waits for a few moments before commanding them all to sit. _He enjoys this_ , Madge thinks, _enjoys flaunting his authority_.

"Be seated," he finally allows and they all sit as the music begins again. All eyes stay on the King, waiting for his instruction and Madge starts to feel an itch at the base of her spine, a bubble of discontent starting to grow inside her. The King roves lazy eyes over them, lingering over the dancers with his lips curled and then claps his hands. Silver angels enter with jugs of spiced wine and mead while golden ones bring trays laden with figs, dates, pears, apples and strawberries. Madge wants to be enchanted, she really does, but that bubble keeps growing larger, filling her up with no room left for anything else.

_Don't do this_

_Be happy, please_

Madge pinches her palm to clear her misgivings and focuses on the food in front of her. She knows it isn't ladylike, but she piles up her plate with strawberries, is always craving her favourite fruit.

(and maybe she hopes to pop that bubble inside of her with something she loves)

Lady Anne nibbles on a single pear and Madge feels a bit like a pig, her mountain of fruit looking monstrous in comparison. She peeks up at the King, juices running down his chin and catching in his beard, and feels decidedly better.

(though she supposes while someone might lecture her on her manners, no one would dare do so to the King)

The fruit is exquisite, the best she's ever had but that bubble stays inside of her, not even dented and Madge feels like a sinking ship. She's never been depressed a day in her life, and now, surrounded by more splendor than she could conjure in her wildest dreams, a smile feels impossible. Happiness has never been such a chore and Madge cannot help but blame the King. His wicked deeds have poisoned her.

( _that's treason_ , comes a voice in her head)

( _I know_ , she whispers back)

Servers come with basins for them to wash their hands before the second course and Madge shakes her head, stubbornly refuses to give up. She will enjoy herself tonight, _she_ _will._ Angelic servers arrive with a variety of pies, filled with meat, eggs, vegetables and fruit, mountains and mountains of them, enough for an entire village. Madge takes in their delicately feathered wings and wishes real angels were here, children of light to fight off the shadows in every corner.

_Stop thinking like that, stop it_

Madge closes her eyes, digs nails into her wrists and inhales deeply. She opens her eyes, resolved again to banish unhappiness from tonight. She turns to the pie platters before her and knows it's silly after eating an entire plate full, but takes a strawberry pie from the pile anyway.

(gluttony some might say, but this is the only comfort she can find)

Her nurse would be utterly appalled, so Madge turns to Lady Anne beside her.

"Would you care to share? I think a whole pie might be too much for me."

(this is a lie)

(Madge could definitely eat a whole pie)

Lady Anne blinks at her but then smiles sweetly, eyes bright with pleasure. "I would love to."

Madge is surprised to feel a smile on her own face, that bubble in her stomach suddenly leaking air and cuts the pie carefully in half, sliding Lady Anne's portion onto her plate.

(maybe there is comfort to be found in other places too)

"Bon appetit," Madge says and Anne dips her head.

"And to you."

They giggle a bit and Madge wonders if this is what it feels like to have a friend, one who isn't a poppet or your parents. Not that Madge would be so presumptuous as to call Lady Anne her friend, but deep down, she feels a little better already. They dig in and the pie is delicious, though not quite as good as their cook's back home, and Madge is craving a hundred others. She wants more but knows she shouldn't, shoulders lighter after her exchange with Lady Anne.

(maybe because now she's not alone)

Thankfully the servers arrive to clear the dishes and Madge is saved from any decisions. Washing basins come around again and the pies are replaced with oysters, mussels, scallops and more fish than Madge could ever name. Anne takes dainty bites of a scallop and Madge knows it is a sin, but she cannot help but be envious of how birdlike she is, will never look quite so graceful as she eats.

Washing basins come to signal the end of the course and Madge washes her hands even though she didn't eat anything, would hate for people to think her unhygienic. Next comes meat, with beef, chicken, pork, mutton, lamb, venison, partridge, quail, goose and duck. Even more impressive, a staple of royalty, are the swans and peacocks, painstakingly re-feathered after they were cooked. Anne frowns.

"Is the scallop not agreeing with you?" Madge asks worriedly, having had her own bad experiences with fish and queasy stomachs.

Anne blushes down to her neck.

"Oh no, no of course not. I just...I don't like when it still looks like a real animal, like it might fly off any moment," she admits, embarrassed, but Madge takes a long look at the swans and peacocks and realizes she may be right.

"It is somewhat unnerving," she agrees and Anne sinks in her seat in relief. They share a smile and Madge helps herself to some quail while Anne takes a miniature amount of pork. Madge ladles a thick sauce onto her meat and everything is luxuriously spiced and seasoned, the heady aroma floating into her brain and making her hazy. Her eyes drift around the room and find Prince Cato, who has clearly inherited his father's table manners. He gorges himself on roasted swan and peacock, stuffing it in his face like a wild animal and Madge grimaces in disgust. Anne follows her line of sight and takes him in with wide eyes.

"Not quite so princely, is he?" she whispers and Madge giggles into her sleeve.

(he doesn't seem so frightening now)

They wash their hands again and then dine on doughnuts, biscuits and turnovers. Each one is scrumptious, but Madge makes sure not to eat too much, wants to be able to savor dessert.

"Is this your first time at court?" Anne asks her and she nods. "I thought so. How old are you, Lady Madge?"

"I shall be ten in March," she declares proudly and Anne smiles.

"I turned eleven in August," she says and Madge pouts even though she knows she shouldn't.

"Have you been to court before?" she questions, hoping she won't be beat in this too, but Anne nods slowly, eyes turned down to her plate.

"I have been coming ever since I was very young," she murmurs and there is something in her tone that makes Madge bite her lip. She grabs Anne's hand beneath the table, the fingers cold and trembling. Anne looks up with wet eyes and Madge smiles at her, wants to sweep away her sadness like Anne did hers. Anne sucks in her bottom lip and then smiles back, a cloud seemingly lifted and they keep their hands together until the servers come with more washing basins.

(what could make her so unhappy?)

(Madge is fairly certain she knows the answer)

Melancholy thoughts start to recede at the magnificent spread of subtleties laid out before them, decorated with the petals of roses, violets and elder flowers. They are presented with fritters, sweet custard, darioles, crepes with sugar, strawberry tarts, plum tarts, cherry tarts, mulled wine, aged cheese, fruit paste and fruits covered in sugar, honey or syrup. Several servers come out carrying a great replica of Westminster made of marchpane and people applaud as it is set on the head table.

Madge takes a few spoonfuls of custard, several syrupy strawberries and splits a crepe with Anne. She smiles, finally truly enjoying herself, and this is nice, is what she wanted all those months she dreamed at home. Prince Cato takes everything he can get his hands on, stuffing his face with darioles, honeyed pears, crepes and marchpane. Madge purses her lips, wonders if he's ever learned any manners, and her eyes slide to his father beside him, her blood suddenly running cold. There is a red smear left behind on the King's wine goblet, like a kiss of death and it terrifies her for reasons she can't explain, all the warmth and joy she'd began to feel draining away, the horrors of Westminster returning with a fresh virulence. She abandons the rest of her dessert, her stomach shriveled and small.

They wash their hands for the final time and the King claps his again, the music becoming more raucous. The dancers spill between the tables, spinning and whirling and performers stream into the hall, some juggling and others flipping through the air. People ooh and ahh as acrobats fly and a man breathes fire, a knife thrower earning gasps and applause. Madge yearns to enjoy herself as well, but she wants to retire, her excitement replaced with the claustrophobic dread she'd been feeling since that terrible day in the square. She squeezes her eyes shut as the memories flood back and this isn't what she wanted. Can she not have just one night?

(no)

The performances seem to carry on forever and Madge feels so tired, like she hasn't slept in months. _I just want to go home._ She needs her parents but can't find them in the sea of faces and finally the King stands, everyone hurrying to do the same, their benches scraping loudly over the stone floors. He steps down from the dais, Queen Enobaria and Prince Cato following after him and Madge prays this means the night is coming to it's end.

The bell wearing dancers begin to twirl from the room, the royal family falling in behind them. Soon, everyone in the hall is moving out as a procession, the musicians bringing up the rear. Madge wonders if she could just slip away and crawl up into her oversized bed, desperately wishes this night was over. Instead, they are led into a great hall, the dancers spinning around in the center of the room. The King and Queen sit on gilded thrones at the far end of the hall and everyone else fills in around the edges, the musicians setting up in the corner. Madge takes a look around the large, empty room and knows they've been brought here for after dinner dancing. Will this night never end?

(never ever)

No one moves, waits for the King to decide what happens next. He surveys them with smirking malice and then makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. The dancers cease their movements, the echo of their bells tinkling around the hall. They drape themselves around his throne and Madge wonders if she's imagining the uneasiness in their eyes.

(she doubts it)

"Let the youngest among us begin tonight," the King commands and Madge feels like her feet are made of stone. A serving boy hurries to bring the King more wine and the children around her begin buzzing excitedly, each one searching for a partner. Even though she'd practised for so long, even though she'd be so looking forward to it, she prays no one will ask her to dance.

Various pairs form but the girls around her hold their breath and Madge realizes it's because Finnick of Richmond is looking around, eyes skipping over each girl they land on. Every girl seems to vibrate, desperate to dance with him but his gaze stops on Anne, her eyes sparkly as she takes in the dancefloor. He lights up and smiles, easy and slow as it stretches across his face. Lord Finnick walks over, girls deflating like old wine sacks when he passes them. He stops in front of Anne and smiles, bowing low.

"Lady Anne, may I have this dance?"

Her cheeks turn a deep, dark pink and she won't meet his eyes, but she nods quickly and he takes her pale hand in his. They step out onto the dancefloor, followed by venomous glares and Madge feels a little warm for a reason she can't explain. It vanishes quickly though, replaced with frigid unhappiness when she catches sight of Prince Cato. He sneers at her, but is definitely walking right towards her. She peeks around him and sees the King watching them, his eyes narrowed and his smirk bloody as always. Her stomach sinks and though she has no idea why, she knows he must have ordered the Prince to dance with her. Cato half-bows before her, eyes hard.

"Would you like to dance, Lady Madge?"

_No,_ she wants to shout, _no!_ She knows better though and dips into a curtsy.

"I would be most honoured, your Highness."

He takes her hand with sticky fingers and tugs her into the centre of the room. The music picks up in intensity and everyone stumbles through the appropriate steps, Madge's own legs weighed down with lead. Cato jerks her around the floor, her movements stiff and Madge counts each and every second of the dance until it is over. Cato takes issue with her inattention and stomps on her foot, pain screaming up from her crushed toes. She bites her lip to stop from crying out and knows he did it on purpose, his eyes mean and dark. She exhales sharply and does not glare at him no matter how much she wants to, chooses to peer over his shoulder and take comfort in Anne and Finnick, making such a pretty pair as they dance.

The song mercifully comes to an end and Cato releases her like he's been burned. He scowls, the edges of his teeth visible between his lips.

"You're not very good, are you?" he asks, voice harsh and loud enough for everyone around them to hear. Madge does not bristle even as lightning crackles beneath her skin, drops into a curtsy instead.

"My most sincere apologies, your Highness," she demures and he snorts, stomping off. She rises and people are staring at her, whispers passing behind their hands. She wants to run and hide, humiliation heavy on her shoulders but she doesn't, retreats instead to the edge of the room with as much dignity as she can muster. This night was supposed to be her one perfect memory of this trip to court, but tonight she is as miserable as she's always been.

Perhaps there is no such thing as happiness here.

"Idiot!" the King's voice booms and Madge flinches, heart suddenly racing. There is a terrible sound of a hand striking flesh and Madge turns in time to see the King's serving boy crash to the floor, the force of the King's backhand sending him reeling. The wine jug he'd been carrying cracks as it lands on the stone, a dark puddle spreading out in every direction.

"Useless cur!" the King continues, the pointed toe of his shoe digging into the boy's back as he kicks him. Madge clamps her hands over her mouth, the urge to retch seizing hold of her. The King kicks the boy again, ignores his whimpers and then looks up, his face feverish.

"Did I say you were allowed to stop?" he barks at the minstrels and they hurriedly start playing again, their pace frenzied. Madge hadn't even realized they'd stopped, her whole world narrowed in on the bleeding boy on the floor. How could the King be so cruel?

"Remove this filth from my hall!" he snaps to a pair of guards and they haul the boy off, dragging him from the room.

"Lord Brutus, see that the wretch is properly dealt with," the King orders and the Duke of Somerset steps forward with an eager grin.

"As you command, my King."

The boy thrashes suddenly in the guards arms and begs for mercy, garbles out apologies, tears leaking onto his face. Madge wonders why he looks so terrified, wonders what awful punishment the King and Lord Brutus have in store.

(she's better off not knowing)

Everyone hurries to return to their dancing as the King sinks back into his throne but Madge cannot move, rooted to the floor with horror. _This place is cursed_ she wants to wail but never would.

Even at nine, she knows she will receive no mercy.

* * *

Madge wakes early on their day of departure, a thick, sickly anticipation coursing through her veins. There is only the faintest hint of dawn light creeping through the window and Madge stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the outline of King Coriolanus' portrait. She can't make him out, but she knows he's there, looming over her and the thought makes her stomach turn. She yanks the covers up over her head to block him out, like the shields brave knights wear into battle.

"We'll be home soon," she whispers in the gloom, "home and safe."

(except there is no safe, not in King Coriolanus' England)

The maids help her dress for traveling and she vibrates with an eager intensity to flee this castle of terror. All her things are already packed, ready to be lugged into a litter and Madge waits impatiently for her parents, can't understand why they're taking so long. She paces along the length of her room, fingertips brushing extravagant furniture and oh, how she wishes she could be as enamored of it as she wants to be.

(but her eyes are open now, and beauty can't hide the hideous things that lie beneath it)

She thinks it must have been hours she's been pacing when a knock sounds at the door, a page of her father's bringing summons. She practically bounces out of the room, her nurse hurrying after her and already, it's like she's shed so many weights and pounds.

"Good morning," she chirps as she greets her parents, livelier than she's been in all the weeks they've been here. Her father smiles as he pulls on his travelling gloves and a lady's maid fastens a cloak over Madge's shoulders, tugs the hood up over her head. His grin is wider, like it always used to be and Madge puts on her own gloves with a sense of contentment she's been missing. Her mother still looks frail under her heavy winter wear but the colour is returning to her cheeks and Madge feels hope fluttering like a bird in her chest.

_We're going to be okay_

She clambers up into their carriage, her mother settling in beside her. Maids rush about, draping them in thick furs and placing hot bricks underneath their feet while Madge leans against the window edge, takes in Westminster Palace for what she hopes will be the very last time. Her father swings up onto his horse and winks at her. Madge bites her lip around a grin and their long train of horses, litters and men starts off, trundling down London's cold streets.

"Come away from the window, sweetheart," her mother says but Madge doesn't listen, drinks in the chilly air and the wan faces of the people they pass. Everyone averts their eyes as they roll by, all of their movements shifty and nervous. The air here is tense and she can feel it trying to leech away her glee at going home. Madge sucks in her bottom lip as she loses count of all the soldiers and guards sprinkled throughout the city, each one sporting a livery badge of the King, a silver wolf crowned in gold.

_Why are there so many? Is London really so dangerous?_

(the answer is yes, of course)

(the real question, is _who_ in London is so dangerous)

They turn a corner and Madge inhales sharply, her eyes widening in alarm. Standing in the slushy road is a line of men bound together with chains, their clothes thin and ratty. The carriage lurches to a stop, the road blocked and her father's squire rides forward to speak with the man in charge of these men, his uniform a bloody red and emblazoned with the King's wolf. Each man is sallow and ill-fed, eyes sunken and cheek bones jutting out. Madge cannot take her eyes off of them even as her stomach rolls over and over and she leans forward, nearly hanging out of the window.

"Madge," her mother reprimands but she barely hears it over the crack of a whip, like thunder loud in her ears. Madge flinches as the men are hurried to the side of the street and one stumbles, his knobbly knees sinking into the grey snow. He hunches over and Madge watches in horror as the snow starts to redden, her throat burning with bile.

"Madge," her mother starts again and Madge closes her eyes, nails digging into the wood of the carriage. A wave of sickness crashes inside of her as the carriage starts again and she keeps her eyes closed until they turn another corner. She breathes deeply and blinks them open, the very top of Westminster still visible. It towers over London and Madge does not need to wonder about the fear she sees in the eyes of the people they pass. There is a shadow over London, a fear permeating the streets.

No one here is happy.

(except the King)

They reach the city gates and Madge says a last farewell to London, offering silent prayers that she never has to return. Her mother pulls her against her side and Madge snuggles into her arms, relieved to be on her way home.

The King can't touch them there.

* * *

(if only if only if only)

* * *

Bedford Castle is the most welcome sight Madge has ever seen and she throws herself out of the carriage almost before it's stopped.

She nearly trips over her skirts but her father swoops down from his horse and grabs her, swinging her up into his arms. Her mother climbs down from the carriage in a much more careful fashion and comes to stand beside them, her arm fitting snugly around her husband's waist.

"It is good to be back," her father says and Madge nods.

"It is good to be _home_ ," her mother corrects and they all seem to exhale together, expelling the toxins bleeding from Westminster's walls. _Whatever happened in London is over_ , Madge assures herself, _we are safe now, home and safe._

(how naive she is)

* * *

Only months later, before Madge has even turned ten, news comes of another revolt in London, followed by a mass execution.

(fifty four dead)

( _fifty four_ )

Madge wraps her blankets around herself at night and knows she won't sleep a wink. The dead crawl like ghosts through the shadows of her room and she wonders if it will ever end, the rebellions and riots and death.

Why is it that so many people are willing to commit treason, to rise against their sovereign lord? Was he not ordained by God? Are they not compelled to show him fealty?

_But he is wrong_ wails a voice in Madge's heart as she remembers the fear that hung heavy in London's streets, the terror in the eyes of its citizens. There had been a dark whisper then in the halls of Westminster, a promise of bloodshed to come.

Perhaps the time has finally come.

(not yet, but soon)

* * *

(here is a secret Madge learns at nine)

(the King is evil)

* * *

"It appears I've won again," the Duke of Bedford says with a grin, setting down his cards on the table. Madge pouts.

"Ladies do not pout, my love," her mother admonishes gently while her graceful fingers put the finishing touches on a purse for her husband. Madge tries to squish down her pout and fails, tossing her own cards onto the table. Her father laughs.

"Fear not, my sweet. Practice does make perfect. I'm sure you'll be beating me in no time."

Madge huffs softly. She'd like to be beating him _now_. Her mother examines the purse with a critical eye and then offers it to her husband.

"What think you, my lord?" she asks and the Duke takes it with careful hands.

"Magnificent," he declares and his wife rolls her eyes, "I shall wear it proudly."

Margaret of Bedford shakes her head fondly at him and he leans in for a kiss. Madge watches them and the smiles present on both their lips and feels her frustration ebb away.

"Try and keep better care of it this time, I would prefer to do more with my time than embroider purses," the Duchess teases and her husband grins, fastening the purse to his belt.

"I shall endeavor to do my best," he promises and the room feels pleasantly warm to Madge, everything bright and rosy. It's been months since they'd left London, she's ten and all grown up now, and she could almost imagine it was all a bad dream, a nightmare half-remembered.

"Alright," her father says, standing up, "I think it's time our little lady went off to bed."

Madge frowns.

"I'm not tired!" she insists and her father smiles and scoops her up into his arms.

"Perhaps not now, but you will be tomorrow if you don't get enough sleep tonight."

"But fatheeeeerrrrr," she whines and her mother frowns.

"Madge, remember your manners."

_Proper ladies do not whine and they always obey their lord father,_ she recounts in her head and _why must manners always be so bothersome?_

"Indeed, what great lord will want such a whiner as a wife?" her father asks and tickles her side. Madge squirms in his arms.

"Oh Papa, stop, stop Papa!" she giggles and her mother shakes her head.

"You are both terrible," she pronounces but she smiles prettily at them all the same.

"I was merely punishing a disobedient daughter," her father insists and Madge giggles into his shoulder.

"If I believed that, I would have to have wool for brains," her mother retorts, voice bubbly with laughter. The Duke gasps.

"Is that any way to talk to your Lord Husband? All the women here are so impudent," he says in mock-disappointment and then looks down at Madge with a secret smile.

"Shall we teach this lady a lesson?" he asks and Madge nods eagerly. He reaches out and takes her mother by the hand, tugging her gently over to them. Her mother's arms go around them both and Madge likes this, being warm and safe in her parents' embrace.

"I know exactly what you are planning and you would not dare," her mother tells them and the Duke catches Madge's eye and winks. Tiny fingers attack Lady Bedford, tickling wherever they can reach.

"Madge-stop this-at once," her mother gets out between peals of laughter but Madge ignores this, her own laughter mingling with her mother's.

"Stop-stop!" her mother begs and all three of them are laughing, together and happy and untouched by all the horrors to come.

(and that's how Madge will remember this, one perfect golden moment where everything was wonderful and bright)

A knock sounds at the door and interrupts their mirth, both of her parents furrowing their brows. Her father sets her down and turns to the door with a frown.

"You may enter," he calls and Sir Thomas Cartwright, her father's Marshal, steps inside. His face is drawn and Madge feels the temperature drop. Sir Thomas is in charge of all their defenses and military matters, does this mean they are under attack?

"I apologize, my lord," Sir Thomas says as he bows, "but you have received urgent summons from the King."

All the air seems to have left the room, Madge's whole body left breathless.

"Why?' her father questions, a quaver in the back of his voice. Sir Thomas looks at Madge and her mother, clearly uncertain if he should say whatever it is in front of them.

"Go ahead," he father urges and Sir Thomas bows his head.

"There is armed rebellion in Kent. The King commands you to raise men and head there immediately to help stamp it out."

Madge feels her mouth drop open and her mother gasps, covering her mouth with trembling hands.

"I see," her father whispers, voice suddenly rough. "We will leave as soon as possible. See that everything is prepared."

Sir Thomas bows again. "Immediately, your Grace." He turns and sweeps from the room, Madge staring unseeingly after him.

"Joseph," her mother says and snags her husband's sleeve between shaking fingers. He turns to look at her with sad eyes and neither of them says a word, so much more conveyed in silence. He covers her hand with his, their eyes trained on each other and the sudden urge to cry bubbles up in Madge's gut.

_Don't go Papa, please don't go_

Her mother grabs her husband's face, fingers on his cheeks and kisses him with a fierceness Madge has never seen before, her skin flushing red.

"Be careful," the Duchess commands him, their foreheads touching.

"I will."

"You'll be back soon, won't you Father?" Madge asks, fear like poison in her veins. He turns to her with a smile, reaching one hand out to stroke her hair.

"As soon as I'm able," he promises and then kisses her forehead. Madge closes her eyes, tears stinging under her eyelids.

"We will come and see you off," her mother murmurs, voice faint and afraid. There is a pause, heavy with unsaid things and Madge hugs herself, dread welling up and spilling through her body.

Even here, so far away from London, the King has reached into their home and stolen away their happiness.

* * *

The entire household gathers in the courtyard to say goodbye and Madge tries her best to play the prim and proper lady, her heart weeping inside her chest. The Duke kneels before his Duchess to receive her wife's blessing and Madge tells herself everything will be okay. There is a special magic in a wife's blessing, a power that will surely keep her father safe. He stands when it's done and Madge's mother presses a delicately embroidered handkerchief into his hand, a token to carry with him through the fight to come. He holds it briefly against his heart and then kisses her hand, eyes staring deeply into hers.

Madge sees tears in her mother's eyes but they do not fall and Madge swears she will be just as strong. Her father turns to her and as much as she wants to throw herself on him in a hug, she knows she can't. That isn't how a lady is meant to behave herself.

"I will pray for your victory and speedy return," Madge vows and he smiles, eyes wet.

"I will be grateful for it," he replies and Madge knows the time has come. He shares one last look with both her and her mother and then he swings up onto his horse. A squire hands him his helmet and he looks just like a fairy tail knight. Those men always triumph and so will he. Madge believes that, she has to.

"Godspeed," her mother says in a trembling voice and then they ride off, a long line of horses pouring out of the castle grounds. They are not off to slay a dragon, but other English men and Madge is not sure she understands that, is not sure she ever will. She grabs onto her mother's skirt and already, she is praying.

_Come home soon, Papa._

_Come back safe._

* * *

Madge cannot sleep that night, her head filled with terrible thoughts so she creeps past her sleeping nurse and out into the hall. Everything seems sharper, harsher tonight, every item of furniture and brazier on the wall. There is unseasonal ice in the air and Madge tiptoes to her parents' bedchamber, heart hammering in her throat. She sneaks inside, past sleeping ladies and stops by her parents' huge bed and finds her mother awake, her eyes luminous in the dark.

"Come here, sunshine," she whispers and Madge clambers up into the big bed and under the covers. Her mother pulls her close and rests her chin on the top of Madge's head.

"Papa will be home soon. You must believe that."

Madge nods. "I do, Mama, I promise."

She wraps her own arms around her mother, breathes in her comforting scent.

_Papa will be home soon_ she repeats as she drifts off to sleep.

_Soon_

* * *

Three weeks later, a guard posted on lookout duty hollers into the courtyard.

"Our Lord of Bedford is returning!"

Madge hears him through a window and drops the book she's meant to be reading, happiness bursting inside her.

"My lady!" her tutor tries to scold but Madge is already running from the room. She tears down corridors and up stairs and crashes through a door out onto the guard wall. She clutches the stone and peeks through the parapets, standing up on her tip toes. There, out beyond the castle walls, she can see them, a train of men and horses, waving a white banner above their heads, one blazoned with the silver Bedford Bell.

Her father is home.

* * *

The household gathers outside to welcome their victorious lord home, relief making them giddy.

Great cheers rise up as the knights and soldiers ride into the courtyard, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, and ladies wave handkerchiefs and scraps of lace at them, white ribbons tied in their hair to match their lord's banner. The men toss up their hats in joy and Madge stands with her mother, her own hair filled with ribbons and a solid silver Bedford Bell pinned to her kirtle. There are less men returning than left, but at the head of them is the Duke of Bedford, weary but whole. Madge feels her knees wobble and can barely keep her face straight, a smile dangerously close to breaking through.

Her father pulls off his helmet and hands it to a squire, his dismount slower than usual. There is a heaviness in his bones that gives Madge pause, scratching at the back of her mind. _Something isn't right._ He walks towards them and they curtsy, Madge's a bit clumsy with glee and apprehension. She looks up at his eyes as she stands and her excitement is stomped down by what lingers there, something foreboding and melancholy.

"Congratulations on your triumph, my lord husband. We will have a great feast to celebrate," her mother says and the tired soldiers give a hearty cheer. Her father smiles but it doesn't light up his face like it's supposed to, looks more strained than it should. Madge bites her lip, worry eating away at her happiness and her mother clearly senses something is wrong too, her eyes narrowing as she looks at her husband.

"I will have a bath drawn for you," she tells him and he nods gratefully. Madge wonders why she doesn't ask what's wrong, but perhaps proper ladies aren't meant to do that either. Her father offers his arm and her mother takes it, the two of them leading the household back inside.

Servants rush about to prepare and Madge tracks her parents with her eyes as they move farther away, up to the privacy of their bedchamber. _There is something going on here._ Madge knows she should head to her chamber to get ready, but instead she ducks away from her nurse and follows discreetly behind her parents. She is quiet and their posture is tense, confirming her suspicions. There is a secret her father is keeping, a terrible, awful one.

_But what could it be?_

(are you sure you want to know?)

They enter their bedchamber and Madge presses her ear to the door, their words slightly muffled but still understandable.

"So you suppressed the rebellion, then?"

"Yes, but something was very clear as we rode across the country. This isn't over. There will be others, many others. I fear we will soon be at war."

Madge gasps and pulls away from the door. There is a clatter from the other side, someone having dropped something but Madge barely hears it, heart tumbling over itsef in her chest.

Will they never be allowed to live in peace? Will the King's shadow haunt them forever?

(yes, yes, yes)

* * *

(Madge wonders if it is a sin to hate her king)

(but perhaps it was not God who set him on the throne, perhaps it was the Devil himself)

* * *

When Madge is eleven, she learns of her own claim to the throne.

King Coriolanus is her great uncle, they share a common ancestor in King Henry IV. She falls in the line of succession after the King's son Cato (her cousin once removed) and her own mother (the King's niece).

(this then, explains why the King knows her mother, why he showered honours on them)

(her stomach does queasy somersaults at the thought)

Madge does not have any expectations of being Queen, knows that Prince Cato will surely marry and have children, will push her farther and farther away from the throne. It will, on the other hand, improve her options of marriage, this blood tie to kings. And that is all Madge thinks she can do for her family, marry well.

(she is wrong)

* * *

(but why, Madge can't help but ask herself, why did her parents keep this monumental relation a secret for so long?)

(but then she remembers rolling heads and puddles of blood and maybe she knows the answer)

* * *

"You are growing into quite the young woman, Lady Madge," her nurse tells her as the tailor fits her for a new gown. Madge beams.

"I wager suitors will be lining up outside the castle walls any day now," her nurse continues and Madge blushes at the thought. She thinks she would like a husband, one who was brave and handsome and would love her forever and ever. They would live near her parents and have a very large family and always be happy, until the very day they died. He would wear her favor into battle and fight every tournament in her name. She swoons just at the fanciful imagining of it, like a fairytale come to life. Her nurse chuckles softly.

"It won't be for some years, dear, so don't get too excited."

"Why not? I'm almost old enough," she points out and her nurse nods.

"Indeed, but your lord father and lady mother aren't so keen to see you packed off and wedded until you're still a bit older. In fact, they told the Duke of Exeter just that."

Madge doesn't actually want to get married just yet, would much rather stay with her parents, but her nurse's tidbit of gossip puts hooks into her imagination.

"The Duke of Exeter wishes to marry me?"

Her nurse snorts.

"Goodness, no! He already has a wife. He wanted you for his son and heir, Henry, the Earl of Huntingdon."

Madge bites her lip and ponders this new information.

"And what is this Henry like?" she asks and her nurse turns thoughtful.

"I reckon he's about fourteen and quite tall from what I've heard. They say his father is rather handsome, so he might be as well."

Madge drifts off into thought. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon and future Duke of Exeter. Tall, fourteen and potentially quite handsome. In her eleven year old mind, he sounds perfect.

"Now don't go getting any ideas, the Duke and Duchess have already said you're too young to wed him," her nurse reminds her and Madge nods.

"It is no matter, he will wait for me," she decides, because of course he will. The charming boy in her mind would wait a lifetime for his lady love. Her nurse shakes her head but Madge pays her no mind.

_Lady Madge Holland, Duchess of Exeter._

It sounds lovely.

* * *

Riots rise up again, just as her father predicted, but this time in Devonshire.

Madge watches her father ride away and waves her handkerchief after him, praying for his safe return. Her mother stands by her side and squeezes her shoulder, tears glittering on her cheeks in the golden sunlight.

They do not ride out with her father, but they do fight battles, against despair, waiting, the agony of not knowing.

At least her father has a sword to beat back his enemies.

Madge has only herself.

* * *

Madge takes to practising her letter writing skills, imagines beautiful love notes passed between herself and her future husband, the ever enchanting Henry Holland. It does not matter that she has never met him, because her imagination has long ago run away from her, caught up in pretty, romantic dreams.

As their parents hammer out all the boring legal details of their marriage, Henry and she will spend their courtship taking long walks in the garden, writing letters and playing cards by the fire. His lips will linger against her hand when he kisses it, his eyes will seek her out across the room and they will dance every dance together. He will whisper sweet words into her ear, promises of a lifetime of joy and love.

She blushes, skin heating up and buries her face in her pillow in embarrassment. How silly he would think her if he knew! But still, girlish hopes of love and marital bliss keep her mind from drifting to her father in battle, to his bloody body strewn out across some war torn field. She must have hope for tomorrow, it is what her father would want.

One day, all these rebellions and riots will be over.

One day, her father will give her to Henry in marriage and they will all live happily ever after.

One day.

* * *

She and her mother are breaking their fast when a messenger arrives bearing news from her father.

Madge stops eating immediately, stomach too excited for food, and eagerly looks over what he's brought. There is a crate, a small box tied with a cord and two letters sealed with her father's crest. The messenger bows to her mother and presents her with the letters, his hair swept back by the wind.

"From His Grace the Duke of Bedford, milady," he says and her mother takes the two letters with a smile.

"My thanks, good sir," she tells him and offers him a few coins as a tip. "You are welcome to stop by the kitchens for food and drink and I will have my Constable tend to your horse."

He bows again, cap clutched to his chest and their Steward shows him out. Madge leans over the table to get a better look at the letters, both addressed in her father's hand. On the first is written _To My Dear Duchess and Sweet Daughter_ and Madge thrills at the sight. The second says _For My Most Beloved Margaret_ and Madge imagines it must be a love note, filled with romance and she can't help but dream of the days she'll receive one from her own husband. Her mother breaks the seal on the first and pulls out the letter, Madge vibrating with anticipation.

"To my Dear Duchess Margaret and Sweet Daughter Madge,

We have stopped to sup at the Duke of Exeter's castle and we are joined as well by the Earl of Oxford ( _Anne's father!_ Madge thinks with a jolt). I think you would both like it here very much, for they have the grandest gardens I have seen outside of Windsor. Exeter says his son Henry spends most of his time exploring the grounds and climbing trees, to the eternal vexation of his lady mother.

Exeter also bid me take a crate of spirits he has been sent from France, claiming, of course, that he merely thinks we might enjoy them. I would guess his constant talk of Henry and the spirits have an ulterior motive, though it would be rude to say so, or to refuse such a generous gift (her mother interrupts her reading to laugh, shaking her head). As such, I have taken the liberty of accepting them and have sent them along with the messenger. Perhaps we may use them to toast my return (her mother laughs again and Madge can imagine her father's tone as if he were speaking the words himself and the smile that would grace his lips)?

Speaking of gifts and young Henry, he has sent something along for you, my Madge. It is in the other package and I swear I have no idea what it might be (Madge's heart does back flips, a silly, overjoyed smile breaking out over her face).

We are planning to spend the night here and ride out on the morrow, which is why I have the time to write. Oxford has spent the evening challenging me to cards, but he is nowhere near your level, Madge dear, and so I have been beating him handily. Exeter's wife, Lady Anne, is much admiring of your needlework, Margaret darling, and has made me swear a hundred times to relay her compliments to you as she has spent the night gushing over the purse and handkerchief you made me. Of course, this may also have to do with those ulterior motives mentioned earlier.

It is late and I should rest, but I confess I would much rather stay up writing. I won't though, I know how you would scold, sweetheart. I will be rested for tomorrow, as you would insist.

I wish most heartily that all this was over and I was with you both, but know that I think of you often and pray you are well.

With all my love, your most devoted husband and father,

Joseph, Duke of Bedford

written this day may eighth of the year fourteen sixty four in the Duke of Exeter's castle of Rougemont."

Madge's heart is warm from her father's words but there is also a knot of shivering excitement in her chest at the thought of what Henry Holland might have sent her. She looks to her mother for permission and the Duchess frowns but nods, clearly not pleased at boys sending Madge gifts.

Madge eagerly pulls the package towards her, barely even registering her mother's watchful gaze. She carefully unties the cord around it and lifts the lid, her heart pounding as loud as a giant's footsteps. Inside the box is a folded note and she takes it with shaking hands, romantic dreams swirling in her blood. She unfolds it and her eyes take in the the hastily scrawled message, the first tangible part of Henry she's ever encountered. She doesn't read it aloud as her mother did the letter from her father, wants this to belong just to her and Henry.

_Lady Madge,_

_Your father has come to stay with us and I hope he will give this to you. My lord father says we might one day be married, and so I would like you to have this token of my esteem. I bought it from a traveling merchant, who promises it once adorned the hand of a foreign princess._

_I liked it because it reminded me of outside, which is where I spend most of my time. If I had a choice, I think I would spend all my days and nights outdoors. Would you marry a man who lived in the woods?_

_I hope you like my gift and fare thee well,_

_Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon_

It is not gushingly romantic and yet it might as well be, Madge feeling like she's skipped right over the moon. She holds it against her chest and sighs, her mother watching her with a fondly exasperated smile.

"You look feverish, love, and you have not even seen his present," she points out and Madge startles back to the moment. Again, bright hot excitement courses through her and she peers into the box, gasping aloud at what she finds. It is a ring made of gold with a silver flower on the band, the center set with a tiny pearl. Madge cradles it in her hands and is fairly certain she has never seen anything more lovely. She slips in onto her finger and swears right then that she will never take it off, not as long as she lives.

_Thank you Henry,_ she thinks, heart on fire.

_I will treasure it always_

* * *

That night her dreams are filled with Henry, dashing, charming Henry who sweeps her right off her feet. But better than any dream is the thought that one day it will all be real, Henry loving her in life and not just fantasy.

She hugs the hand bearing his ring to her heart and plans out her return note in her head, cannot wait to put it all to paper.

_Oh Henry, Henry, Henry, how lucky I am to have you._

* * *

Her father returns a victor, but he looks exhausted, the beginnings of an ugly red scar visible at the edge of his collar.

"Mercy, Joseph, what happened?" her mother fusses as squires help him remove all his armor. They peel back the layers and Madge hisses in shock at the twisting injury on her father's chest, long, deep and startlingly crimson. Her mother presses her fingertips to it in worry, her face awash in terrifying what-could-have-beens.

"I am alright," her husband assures her and takes hold of her hand, pressing it against his beating heart. "We were caught off guard, we were not expecting so many."

Madge clasps her hands and closes her eyes, the thought of losing her father making her head swim and her stomach roll.

"They almost got the better of us."

Her mother inhales sharply and her father's face turns dark and stormy, sorrow drawing heavy lines on his face.

"It was terrible," he murmurs, lost in some awful memory, "the Duke of Exeter's young son, Henry, snuck after us, eager to follow his father into battle. The rebels cut him down right before his father's eyes."

Madge does not hear anything else her father says, her head connecting with the stone floor as she collapses.

* * *

Madge spends a whole day laid up in bed, but it is not her head that ails her, not nearly as much as her heart does.

The physician tends to her, her parents hovering worriedly nearby but Madge barely takes note of any of them, sobbing as she mourns the boy she never met but could have loved. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon who would now never be Duke of Exeter. Her dreams all fall to shambles, victims of the cruelty of King Coriolanus' England.

There is no childhood here, no innocence.

Just death and blood and ruin.

* * *

(poor, sweet Henry)

(even in all the decades to come, Madge will never forget this boy who never grew up)

(in the wars of Kings, the innocent are often forgotten. Madge vows to keep their names alive)

* * *

The halls are filled with whispers now, of the treachery of the rebels, the unrestrained violence of these riotous citizens. Maids and cooks pass words behind their hands, say this is the Devil's work, that God will lay a curse down on their wretched souls.

Madge cannot deny they are evil, horrid people, young Henry Holland rising like a specter in the back of her mind. What kind of monster would someone have to be to cut down a young boy, still so bright and full of life?

But if the rebels are doing the Devil's work and the King is the demon haunting her nightmares, what does that mean for England?

Are all of them cursed? Has their Heavenly Father abandoned them?

(one look at the atrocities committed here and the answer is obvious)

( _yes_ )

* * *

Madge wanders garden paths and plucks spring blossoms from their stems.

She carries them to the top of the grassy hill at the edge of the grounds, the one her nurse used to whisper belonged to fairy kings. The world still glistens from the morning's rainfall and her boots sink into the soft earth, the hem of her dress trailing in the mud. She kneels down and doesn't feel the cool wetness of the ground as it seeps through her layers of skirt, her mind focused entirely on her task.

She ties sweet smelling flowers into wreaths and drapes them over a large, mossy boulder, one too large for any man to move. Her hand reaches into the pouch hanging from her girdle and pulls out the diamond she'd smuggled from her mother's coffer of jewels, running her thumb over it's smooth edges. She remembers being told diamonds are harder than stone and so she takes her stolen gem and carves into the boulder, her hand cramping from clutching the diamond so tight. It takes longer than she'd thought it would, dusk starting to kiss the clouds by the time she's done, but Madge looks at her work and though she is too raw to smile, she still feels proud. Carved in this boulder, forever and ever and ever, is just one name, shaky and squiggly but legible.

_Henry._

She is sure his family has buried him with full pomp in a magnificent tomb, but Madge remembers his letter and wants him to be outside forever, just like he'd wished.

_Let his spirit rest here on this fairy hill, chasing endless adventures._

_Let him be young and carefree and laughing for eternity._

Madge twists his ring off her finger and holds it in the palm of her hand, a soft breeze blowing petals off the wreaths she'd left for him. They swirl through the air and down the hill, bright and colourful, just like she imagines Henry would have been.

She digs a hole with her free hand, dirt clumping under her nails and sullying her sleeve. She places his letter inside, gently covers it with earth and pats it down, safely burying it below the ground. She says a final prayer, his ring held between her hands and looks up at the sky, the sun meeting the stars against a pink and purple canvas.

"Rest well, Henry," she whispers and hopes her words float up to the heavens themselves.

(she knows it is just her imagination, but for one brief moment, she could swear she hears a voice, young and full of boyish cheer)

( _i will_ )

* * *

The only sound in the schoolroom is the scratching of Madge's quill as she works on her Latin. Her tutor sits at the front of the room, reading quietly to himself and Madge works diligently, will broker no mistakes. Latin is the only one of her languages that she struggles with and she is determined to get this translation right, wants to surprise her parents at dinner tonight with how far she's come.

Her concentration is broken by a clatter of hooves outside and even though she knows she'll receive a scolding for it, Madge hurries over to the window. A messenger rides through the courtyard and just as she dreaded, he sports the King's badge, a crowned wolf she has learned to despise.

"Lady Madge," her tutor says sternly, demanding she return to her seat.

"It is a messenger from the King," she whispers. "It is rebellion again, isn't it?"

Her tutor doesn't answer but that's alright, he doesn't need to.

* * *

Dinner is a somber, hurried affair, the castle filled with urgent preparations for her father's ride to help crush yet another revolt against the King. He shovels down his food and Madge's eyes bounce anxiously between her parents. Her mother's skin is ashy, her face drawn and her lips pressed into a tight line. She does not touch her supper and Madge feels as if her own appetite has run off, her throat far too dry to swallow anything at all. Her father takes a last gulp of wine and sets down his goblet with a thunk.

"I need to get going, we want to rendezvous with Pembroke before tomorrow night," he tells them and pushes out his chair. Madge feels pulled tight all over, stretched so thin she might snap. Every goodbye is worse than the last and she wants to beg him not to go, would get down on her knees and clutch at his legs if she thought it would do any good.

"I cannot take this anymore," her mother moans, swaying in her seat. Her husband hurries over to her in alarm and Madge is too frightened to move, the world crumbling around her ears.

"Shall I send for the physician?" her father asks, voice distressed and Madge tries to swallow around a lump in her throat.

"What is the point? A physician cannot cure me."

The Duke looks at his wife in confusion. "Whyever not? What ails you, my love?"

"These rebellions! You, running off to keep the King on his throne!"

Madge watches her father recoil in shock and she cannot help but feel it too, has never heard her parents exchange even one harsh word in all her life.

"He is our sovereign lord, I have no choice but to obey his commands," her father says, tone still lilted through with confusion.

"You've said it yourself, these riots won't end, not until the entire country is at war! The people hate him! How long will you fight his battles, beating back his enemies while he sits safe in his palaces?"

The Duchess' face is red and flushed, her breathing heavy and she looks so winded and out of breath from so little conversation it makes Madge want to weep.

"He is my King, and your uncle!" her father snaps back, voice raised in a way Madge has never heard, a kernel of fear rooting in her stomach.

"Exactly! I have grown up haunted by his shadow! We both know what sort of man he is better than anyone! Would you die for him, leave us forever, just to keep him on his throne?"

Madge wants to close her ears from the shouting, hates the King all over again for tearing apart her family.

"What would you have me do, Margaret?" her father demands, anger turning his neck and ears bright red. "Abandon my oaths? Fall in with the rebels? Loose everything we have and have my head put on a spike on Tower Hill?"

Her mother doesn't answer, eyes narrowed into slits and chest heaving.

"That is treason, Margaret," the Duke pronounces, voice so grave Madge feels like she's climbed into a bath of ice. Her mother holds his gaze for a few moments more and then collapses in her chair like a popped soap bubble.

"You're right of course," she whispers and the anger seems to drain out of her husband, "he is God's anointed King, we owe him our loyalty."

Madge watches her father nod and return to his wife's side, taking her limp hand between both of his.

"And we are bound to him by blood, no one will ever forget that."

Her parents share a look, one steeped in hopelessness and it's what they aren't saying, the undercurrent in their words that scares Madge worse than anything they have said.

If the King loses, they shall all be condemned right alongside him.

* * *

The physician decides her mother must be conveyed straight to bed despite her protests and so her husband carries her upstairs to their bedchamber, Madge trailing after them.

"I am well enough to see you off, Joseph," Margaret insists as he lays her down gently on their great bed.

"There is no shame in being ill, darling. Rest and be well again," he murmurs, fingers stroking her hair. Her mother struggles up onto her elbows and her dress slips slightly, exposing a frightfully thin shoulder. Madge flinches in shock. How had she not noticed how thin her mother was becoming, what a toll her bouts of sickness were taking?

"I have been ailing since the day I was born, Joseph, we both know I shall never be well. But I am not an invalid, I am the mistress of this house and I will see you and the men off." She tries to fill her voice with steel but it is threaded though with weakness instead. Outside these castle walls or within them, it seems there are always threats to ravage Madge's happiness.

"Don't go, Mama," she begs, dropping to her knees at her mother's bedside with fear in her heart. She clutches her mother's hand and she can see the surrender in her eyes. The Duchess lies back against her pillows and folds into them, looks so much older and frailer than her thirty one years.

"I shall be back soon. I love you," her father says and kisses her mother's forehead. Margaret nods tiredly and Madge bites her lip to fight back tears. Her father smiles at her and lifts her chin with his hand.

"Be brave, sweet Madge. All will be well again soon."

Madge squeezes closed her eyes and nods. "I will be, Papa, I promise," she says, sobs catching in her throat.

"I know you will."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and then he's gone, tears slithering out from beneath her eyelids and down her cheeks. Her mother squeezes her hand and Madge holds her father warm in her heart.

_I shall be brave Papa, the very bravest_

* * *

Madge's favourite story has always been that of King Arthur, the brave, good king who will rise again to save them in their darkest hour.

Whenever times get rough, she has always comforted herself with the thought that he hasn't returned yet, that whatever she thinks is so terrible, isn't truly so horrid. If it really were, King Arthur would've come to save them.

(of course, if he hasn't come yet, if this isn't bad enough to call him back, that means something even worse is in store)

(even her heroes conjure nightmares now)

* * *

Her father returns victorious, the King's forces once again triumphant.

_How long_ , Madge wonders, _how long will this continue_?

(forever and ever and ever)

* * *

(Madge is twelve when she learns of the other claim to the throne, the one no one speaks of)

(at least not out loud)

(He is Finnick Odair, Earl of Richmond, but the word _bastard_ haunts his name, on either side of his family tree.

His mother is a descendant of Edward III, just like Madge, just like King Coriolanus himself. John of Gaunt, son of Edward III and father to Madge's great grandfather Henry IV, had several children by his mistress Katherine Swynford, all born out of wedlock, but legitimized once John and Katherine married. From these once bastard children comes the line that leads to Lord Finnick's mother, the Lady Alma.

Lord Finnick's father, meanwhile, is the half brother of King Coriolanus, born of the same mother but different fathers. The stain of illegitimacy lies in the dispute over whether King Coriolanus' mother, the Dowager Queen, ever actually married the servant man to whom she bore so many children, including Lord Finnick's father)

(this boy, a handful of years older than Madge, is never openly acknowledged as a potential heir, even with royal blood flowing through his veins)

(it does not matter though, because he will never see the throne. Prince Cato would have to die without heir, as would Madge and her mother before Finnick Odair of Richmond could call himself King)

(and Madge is sure there is little chance of that)

* * *

Madge is safe in Bedford Castle but she is no longer ignorant of the upheaval in England.

Messengers bring evil tidings every day, a list of dead men and burned cities. The kingdom is fracturing, splintering and the King's idea of order is to continue the killing, to put down the riots with as much brutality as he can manage. He could build fortresses from the bones of his victims and rage sweeps through England, bright and hot, setting the entire country aflame.

The people of England hate their King.

(Madge cannot blame them)

There is only one way to douse this inferno and it is a crime no one would ever be brave enough to say, not even in a whisper.

( _regicide_ )

* * *

Madge lays flowers by her makeshift memorial for Henry and no longer fools herself into believing she'd loved him. She might have, in another life, but in this one he was just a name, not even a face. She does not love him, but still she mourns him, his life snuffed out far too quickly.

Fourteen year old boys should never die, but certainly not by the sword. _Was he frightened? Did he suffer?_ She closes her eyes and prays that his soul is at rest, that he has found peace in the hereafter.

_Poor Henry,_ she thinks, _to be remembered as nothing but a victim, a child murdered in cold blood._ If history will recall his name, it will be as a footnote, just one of many tragedies blooming across England in these tempestuous years. He deserves better in death as he did in life, but he will not get it. No one will.

If life has taught her anything, it is that nothing is fair and no one receives what they deserve. Perhaps the Lord is testing them or perhaps the Devil has wrested England away from him and torments them for sport.

It matters little.

Madge cannot change it, she must merely try and survive it.

* * *

(here is another secret she learns, this time at thirteen.

The Duke of York is a distant cousin of King Coriolanus and thus of her as well. They all descend from King Edward III and there are whispers and echoes that maybe, just maybe, the Duke of York is the rightful King of England.

King Coriolanus' father, King Henry IV, usurped the throne from his cousin Richard II. His reasons, of course, were that Richard was a tyrant, a monster, unfit to rule.

True or not, he has set a precedent.

Even God's anointed King is not safe, is not untouchable.

Worse, some believe the Duke of York has a better claim to the throne than King Coriolanus, as he is descended from Edward III's second son, while the King is descended from his third son.

Madge tries to tell herself it doesn't matter, after all, no one would ever depose a king)

(then again, that's how all this started)

* * *

The world around her always feels like walking over eggshells, fragile and delicate, about to fall to pieces any moment. Everyone's nerves are rubbed raw and her mother is always ill with migraines, skin ashy and body weak. Her father loses weight, his clothes hanging off his frame and his hair starts to thin, dark circles blooming under his eyes. No one sleeps right, pressure and worry building on their shoulders, ready to explode.

Madge feels like rats have taken residence in her stomach, clawed feet scrabbling along her insides. She prays for respite, for her parents' health but still the days seem to grow darker, the menace of rebellion stalking every man, woman and child in England.

They cannot go on this way, something must be done.

(and here it comes)

* * *

_Madge wears the loveliest gown of violet silk, dripping in gold and amethysts, pearls and diamonds. Fragile lace veils cascade down from her hennin and all eyes are on her in the middle of the dancefloor, the handsomest man in all of England bent over and kissing her hand. His lips are warm and soft, butterflies fluttering deliciously in her stomach._

_He stands and Madge looks down at her hand, a smear of blood left behind from his mouth. She frowns, something cold and horrible settling inside of her. She raises her head and screams._

_Screams and screams and screams._

_Henry Holland stands before her, throat slit and body broken, head and limbs bent at odd angles._

_She stumbles away in horror and arms catch her, her back landing against someone's chest. She twists around and cannot even scream, terror clogging her throat._

_It is her father, his eyes plucked out and the skin of his face pecked away by crows. He smells fetid and rotting, glistening bones visible and Madge scrambles away from him, heart stampeding as she tries to escape._

_She sprints down the hall but her feet trip over her skirts and she falls, the ground catching her and swallowing her up. She starts to sink into it and when she looks up, desperate for help, she finds only the King, dripping with blood and cackling wildly._

_The Duke of York comes up behind him, swinging a heavy ax and Madge closes her eyes, feels something hot splash across her cheeks. She opens her eyes and looks right into her King's, open and lifeless._

_Madge screams, no sound leaving her throat and no one comes to save her._

_No one at all._

* * *

Madge is fourteen when war erupts across England.

It's a mild morning in September of 1467 and she is working on her embroidery, is determined to successfully capture a bird in thread. Her mother reads beside her, the other household ladies gossiping quietly. Their peaceful scene is interrupted by one of her father's squires barging into the room, the same one who used to dance with Madge so long ago.

The door crashes against the stone wall, the ladies gasp in scandalized shock and Madge pricks herself with her needle, scarlet blood dripping onto the pale lavender of her dress. She hisses in pain and looks up at Bristel in reproach but the frenzied look in his eyes makes her rebuke dry up in her throat.

"My lady," he pants, red faced and Madge's mother looks at him with feverish eyes.

"What is it?" she whispers, colour sliding out of her face.

"War, your grace, England is at war."

* * *

England has erupted, split down the middle by two powerful men.

The Duke of York has declared the King a tyrant, has deemed him oppressive, cruel, unfit to lead England and her people. Nobles flock to his rebellion, including his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury and his nephew the Earl of Warwick. They seek to remove King Coriolanus from power and place the Duke of York there instead, backed by his own claim to the throne, Edward III's royal blood pumping through his veins.

King Coriolanus retaliates, his own army rising to meet this would-be-usurper.

The clash, when it comes, will be devastating.

For so many, for so long.

(for Madge)

* * *

The Duke of Bedford is called to arms, summoned to prove his loyalty to his King.

Madge and her family are Lancastrians, as the King's supporters are called, not by choice but by blood, and Madge's father gathers as many men as he can to ride out and meet his king. Madge watches him as he prepares to leave, looking small in his gleaming silver armor and hates the Duke of York. She does not know him, has barely met him but he has brought war to England, has dragged her loved ones into bloody conflict.

(there is a small voice though, one that whispers of the fear in London, the chill in Westminster)

(perhaps the Duke of York is on to something)

Her mother is too ill to see the men off, so Madge stands in the courtyard as lady of the house, keeps her back as straight as she can. She wants to grab hold of her father's reins, refuse to let go until he agrees to stay behind but she doesn't, has been raised with Bedford bravery in her heart, will make her father proud.

His eyes are wet as she ties her mother's handkerchief to his gauntlet, a wife's token to keep him safe. He kisses her cheek as the wind picks up, the cold cutting through her skin.

"Take care, my Madge," he whispers.

"And you father," she replies, voice shaking.

He mounts his horse and he looks so pale in the watery sunlight. The ground shivers as the men take off, a thunder of hooves and Madge stays in the courtyard long after they've gone, holds herself tight as tears stain her cheeks.

_Come back father, please come back._

* * *

Life continues in Bedford Castle, news few and far between.

Madge stares out the windows as the weather grows colder, tries to catch a glimpse of a rider bearing some sort of message, some update on the state of England, but always, there is no one.

Madge's fingers are clumsy at her needlework, her eyes blurry as she tries to read her books, her hands limp as she attempts to play her instruments. She cannot concentrate, lives in a state of frigid fear. The world outside is a mystery, one she is desperate to unravel.

_How goes the war? Who is winning? Losing? And what of my father?_

Madge needs to know, just as she dreads finding out.

* * *

"There must be something we can do," Madge says for the thousandth time and her mother sighs, setting down her embroidery.

"I have told you darling, there is nothing we can do but pray. Pray for your father and the King, that they will be safe and victorious. We must trust in the Lord."

It is the same speech she has given every time Madge has asked and just like always, it does little to soothe Madge's nerves. Her mother's ladies-in-waiting share looks of pity and Madge bristles, determines right then that she will find something useful to do.

"May I be excused?" she asks and her mother blinks before sighing again.

"Yes, Madge, you may."

Madge curtsies and turns in a whirl of skirts, desperate to be out of this stifling room, desperate to be _doing_ something. She slips from her mother's solar and leans back against the closed door, at a loss for what that something might be. _Think,_ she tells herself, _there must be something..._

She pushes off from the door and moves across the hall to the window. She leans against it and looks out at the castle grounds, but it is the same view as always, empty and without a rider bearing news. The wind picks up and Madge's eyes catch on a pennant at the top of one of the turrets as it whips in the breeze. It is a fraying white with her father's badge, the silver Bedford Bell, upon it and Madge feels inspiration burn into her fingertips.

She gathers up her skirts and runs down the hall, dodging scandalized chamber maids and shocked page boys as she goes. Her satin slippers nearly flap off but Madge doesn't slow, feels excitement thrusting her forward. She careens through an oak door and arrives in a store room piled high with silks and velvets, brocade and cloth of gold. Reams and reams of fabric, yards and yards of material and Madge falls upon them like a starving man on a fresh pile of vegetables. She picks through crates and boxes, desperate to find the perfect piece.

_Yes!_

She drags out a roll of white silk, cool and soft to the touch. _Perfect!_ She will need thread, red for Lancaster Roses and silver for a Bedford Bell. She will make a banner, with a border of red roses and a great big bell in the middle. She will proclaim her loyalties to the world, show them all the proof of her faith. She will hang it up on the castle walls so everyone will know who they are, who she prays for, who she sends her every ounce of courage to.

This will be a banner to welcome her victorious father home, one to hold all her hopes. Madge hugs the roll of fabric to her chest.

_No more idle hands, I'll be useful._

_You will have the very best homecoming Father, I swear._

* * *

Madge is diligent in her work, measuring and cutting and designing.

There is still no word from the front but she no longer yearns for it with the same intensity, her mind focused and her hands busy. Her banner comes along and she plans out the celebration they will have when her father returns home. What food they'll eat, what decorations they'll hang and what needs to be cleaned, polished and refurbished.

The Yorkists can fight and even win as many battles as they want. They cannot take Madge's hope and it will never falter or fade. The Duke of Bedford will return.

Madge will never let go of that.

* * *

In December, news finally arrives.

It is the worst winter Madge can remember, bitterly cold and heavily coated in snow. The courier who brings word is nearly blue and half dead when he collapses on their doorstep, the words quivering as they leave his bleeding lips.

The Duke of York is dead.

He and his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury have been slain at the Battle of Wakefield, the snow stained red with the blood of countless dead. The routed army has fled, the King is victorious.

Madge sighs in relief. It is over.

(if only)

* * *

But then a whisper.

A whisper goes out that the war is not over, that the Yorkists still intend to fight.

The Earl of Warwick is still standing, a new Earl of Salisbury, Gale, only sixteen, has risen to take his father's place and most shocking of all, the Duke of York's eldest child has taken up his claim.

Not a son, for he had none, but a daughter, Lady Katniss of York.

People shake their heads, scoff, for that cannot be true. These whispers must be wrong.

(they aren't)

* * *

Madge embroiders with vehemence, her needle like a sword and this banner her war. She cannot fight by her father's side, has no idea how to use a sword. She is not Lady Katniss of York (if she even exists), but Madge is still brave, will fight in the only way she knows how.

Every day and night, she and the entire household get down on their knees and pray, for the safety of their lord and victory for their cause. Madge stitches and stitches, will boldly show her colours to the world. She is a Bedford, they are Lancastrians and she will not hide, will pour every ounce of love and courage she has into this banner. Let this be a testament to her belief, to her faith in God and her father. Let any strength she possesses carry to him and make him mighty. Madge cannot fight with spear and shield, cannot ride out into battle for those she loves, but that does not mean she is helpless.

She will keep the home fires burning, she will pray, she will believe.

_Let the Yorkists come_ , she thinks, _let them come. I will not yield or bend or break. I may have no sword or shield, so I shall become them myself._

_Come Yorkists, and have a taste of Bedford steel._

* * *

1467 becomes 1468 and in February fortune turns over, shattering Madge's fragile hope that this war is over, that her father will soon return to them.

Lady Katniss of York, real and bent on vengeance, and her cousin the Earl of Salisbury lead their armies in the Battle of Mortimer's Cross and win a decisive victory, prove themselves deadly and capable. The Lancastrian army is devastated and the King's half-brother, Lord Boggs, Earl of Pembroke, is forced to flee for his life.

The tides have turned.

* * *

(but Madge's hope is not shattered for long)

(she picks up every shard and piece and puts it back together again)

(she cannot command an army)

(instead, she shall destroy the Yorkists with the force of her convictions)

(the good shall triumph, her father will return)

(that is a promise)

* * *

Madge lies awake at night and thinks of Katniss of York.

This girl, only a few years older than Madge, has done the impossible. She rides to war in full armor, rallies troops behind her. She keeps the cause of York alive, no, she does more, she turns York into an unstoppable force, takes them to victory and victory and victory.

_It is unnatural,_ some of her mother's ladies say but Madge wonders if that is really quite as true as everyone believes. There is a fire in her chest, one that burns hotter than any hearth and if Madge knew how, she would charge to war, vanquish enemies, bring her father home safe.

She and Katniss of York are both warriors, just of a different kind.

(even still, they are enemies too)

* * *

February continues, dreary and darker with every passing day.

There is a somber air in Bedford Castle and joy flees from their long faces and terror of defeat. Katniss of York is a chilling specter, far more effective than her father ever was, bolstered by the Earl of Warwick and the new, young Earl of Salisbury.

Isolated and trapped in this castle as they are, the Bedford household knows only that Katniss of York inspires loyalty wherever she goes, crushes Lancastrian forces like they might an ant. Hope is a delicate thing and Madge can tell by the faces around her that most here have had theirs broken, shattered and destroyed. _It is only a matter of time_ they think but don't say. _Soon, the Yorkists will kills us all._

Madge won't surrender so easily.

She puts the finishing touches on her banner, ties off the last silver thread. She instructs some men to hang it above the castle gate and dares the Yorkists to try and take this keep.

_Let them come,_ she thinks, _we will not fall._

_We are Bedfords and proud._

_We are Lancastrians._

_We are ready._

* * *

It is not the Yorkists who come, but Bristel the squire.

Madge has some grooms carry her mother outside, hopes the fresh air with do her well. They set up in the garden, the Duchess wrapped snugly in layers and layers of blankets and furs. They won't stay long, the winter cold, but being cooped all day cannot be helping her mother strengthen. Madge reads aloud to her mother from Chaucer while the other ladies take to their needlework, each one pretending everything is fine and fear does not haunt their every hour.

(but oh, it does)

They have only been out for a handful of minutes when loud shouts come from the direction of the gate, the clamor soon drowning out Madge's voice. She closes the book and rests it in her lap, nails digging into the soft leather cover. _Is it news? Or the Yorkists come to burn us to the ground?_ The ladies stop their stitching, faces turning white and Madge knows they are thinking as she is, wondering if death has come to find them.

They do not have to wonder for long.

Bristel comes galloping into the garden, grooms and guards streaming after him. His horse leaps over a low hedge to crash into their midst, hooves trampling all over the Duchess' flowerbeds. The ladies shriek in terror and Madge jumps up and knocks her chair back, the book clutched tight against her chest. Her mother lifts her head to look at him as he tumbles off his horse, haste evident in every move of his muscles and he hurries into a bow.

"Are you mad?" bellows Sir Thomas as he and a contingent of guards come running towards them, his cheeks puffed up and red. Bristel ignores him and addresses her mother instead.

"My Lady, I come bearing urgent news from the Duke."

Madge almost swoons with relief. News from the Duke means her father is still alive.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sir Thomas thunders. "Have you lost your mind? You cannot-"

"It is fine, Sir Thomas," her mother interrupts gently. "Tell us your news."

Sir Thomas clamps his mouth shut and Bristel nods, his armor spattered with mud.

"The Yorkist army is moving this way, they shall reach the castle in a matter of days."

The ladies around her whimper, Sir Thomas blanches and Madge feels a fire kindle in her belly. _Let them come_.

"I rode as fast as I could, but Lady Katniss moves them at a punishing rate. The Duke bid me tell you that you must all leave, as quickly as you can."

"No," Madge finds herself saying without thinking, the word torn from her throat. Everyone turns to look at her, their eyes poking at her like daggers. "We will hold the castle against any Yorkist siege," she continues, a hysterical conviction mounting in her bones. Bedford Castle must stand, must be ready to welcome her father home when he wins, just as he has done every time before.

"We cannot, Lady Madge. His Grace the Duke of Beford wishes every man not needed to guard you on your way to join him at the front. Times are desperate and we cannot spare enough men to withstand a siege, and certainly not one from Lady Katniss' entire army. We must run."

Bristel's eyes are hard and Madge feels like the ground is sinking beneath her feet. She _cannot_ leave, _will not_.

"Sir Thomas, ready the men to join the Duke," her mother orders and Madge is sure she might vomit. _We cannot do this, cannot leave. The Yorkists cannot chase us from our home._ Sir Thomas bows in assent and hurries off, the Duchess turning to Bristel.

"Fetch the Lord Steward, have him ready the household for departure. We will leave for Berkhampstead immediately."

Madge shakes her head, cannot allow this. Her father has many castles, more than anyone but the King, and Madge has been to most of them. But unlike most nobles, Madge and her family have always preferred a more settled life, have always called Bedford Castle their home. She cannot abandon it now. Bristel frowns.

"My apologies, my lady, but the Duke insisted you go to Westminster and join the King."

The temperature seems to plummet, horror settling over them like a cloak.

_no_

_please no_

"My husband is both the Duke of Bedford and of Clarence, he has more castles and palaces than anyone in England save the King. Any one of them will be suitable to wait out this war," her mother retorts, voice steely even as her skin turns a frightening grey.

"The Duke was adamant, your Grace. Westminster will be the most heavily guarded place in England, there will be nowhere safer. The men that will escort you there will not be enough to defend a castle, no matter which you choose. You are the King's niece and the Duke is one of the King's staunchest allies, the Yorkists will make a point of burning down your castle and seizing you and the Lady Madge," Bristel says and he is being so very bold for a squire. The Duchess shakes her head and Madge knows she will refuse, would never countenance them going back to that devil's den.

They _have_ to stay here.

"Very well, inform the Steward."

Madge gapes at her mother, disbelief tingling in every part of her body.

"Mother, no! We cannot go back there! We cann-"

"Enough, Madge. Your lord father is correct, we will be safest there. He would not suggest it unless it was the only option."

Madge shakes her head, furious tears building in her eyes.

"This is not right! I will not go, I will wait here fo-"

"Madge, stop this. We have no choice. We are going to Westminster as your father wishes. Be brave," her mother says, voice softening, "we must have courage and see this through."

_Be brave,_ her father had always told her as he left, _be brave_.

_Oh father, I'm not sure I can_

* * *

They pack up everything they cannot bear to part with, know full well that the Yorkists will plunder anything that remains. Madge ransacks her chambers, her favourite gowns, jewels, books and trinkets stuffed hurriedly into chests to be packed up in litters. She forces herself not to cry as she bundles it all together, will be strong and resolute.

_This is not forever. When this all over, we will be back._

Madge orders them to leave her banner hanging, will not be ashamed of her colours. Even if the Yorkists win, Madge will not renounce her family.

_We are Bedfords and proud. We are Lancastrians born and raised._

"Your Grace, the Lord Steward would like to know who is to remain here and who shall travel to Westminster with you," a harried clerk tells them as Madge helps her mother pack up her things.

"No one is to remain here," her mother says immediately and the clerk steps back in surprise.

"No one?"

"No. Abandon the castle. I will not leave men and women behind to be slaughtered or imprisoned by the Yorkists. Tell them to return to their families and give an address to the Steward so I may send them excellent recommendations when I reach London. Take this," she says gesturing to one of her chests full of gold, silver and jewels, "and have the Steward divide it amongst them so they may pay their way until they have found new employment. Tell them also that they are welcome to anything we do not take with us. It is not enough, but it is all I can offer in repayment for their years of loyal service."

The clerk gapes and Madge feels a pang in her heart. _Abandon the castle_. Who knew three words could ache so much?

"As to those who will accompany us...only those who wish to. I will not yoke anyone to a ship that may soon sink. Everyone has my blessing to leave and seek their own safety, I will not hold them to us."

The clerk is speechless and Madge clutches tight to the rosary beads she'd wrapped around her wrist before leaving her room, praying that God can hear her.

_Deliver us from harm_

_Keep us safe_

_Please_

* * *

Madge carries a coffer of her mother's things out into the courtyard and stops in surprise at what she finds.

A full complement of guards stands at attention, Sir Thomas at their head; Bristel and several grooms ready the carriages and horses under the direction of their Constable, Sir Richard Keene; maids pack up the last of the things, guided by the Steward, Sir George Costmary and all her mother's ladies are waiting and dressed for travel.

So many have stayed when they could have fled, have chosen to stand with them, even faced with the coming storm. Madge feels like they have reached into her chest and touched her heart, tears building in her eyes. Sir George notices her and comes over.

"I made the Duchess' offer, but none would take it. Those you do not see here, I had to force to leave. We cannot afford to take everyone if we are to make any haste."

"Thank you," Madge chokes out and Sir George's face turns fierce.

"You needn't thank us, my lady. Each one of us is proud to wear the Bedford Badge."

Madge looks at those silver bells embroidered on their clothes and cannot hold back her tears. They drip down onto the coffer in her arms and _see Father? They all love you, you must come home. No matter what the Yorkists do, we are with you._

_Always._

* * *

Madge, her mother and all of her ladies squeeze into the carriage, sacks and chests piled beneath their feet and under their skirts. It is a tight fit but they have no room to spare, every litter they own filled to the brim. Those maids, cooks, clerks, grooms and other household staff they cannot bring with them cluster in the courtyard to see them off, even Madge's elderly tutor, his stern face melted into tears. Sir George has chosen who will come with them and who cannot, ordering those remaining behind to flee immediately. There is no telling when the Yorkists will arrive. They stand beneath Madge's great banner, waving scraps of fabric bearing the Bedford Bell and Madge fears her heart might burst.

"If there were but room, we would ride anywhere with you!" calls a groom, only a year or two older than Madge.

"God keep you, Lady Margaret!" shouts a ruddy faced cook.

"We shall pray for you, Lady Madge!" promises a teary maid.

"You will be in our hearts!" "May the Lord bless the House of Bedford!" "Keep safe and ride swiftly!" "It has been an honour!"

Madge covers her mouth to stifle her sobs and does not take her eyes off of them as their carriage pulls away, will imprint this scene onto her heart. There are no words she could say that will express her gratitude for such devotion and loyalty, no actions she could take that would ever be enough. Her mother has left them that chest of jewels and coins and given them leave to take anything that remains, but even all those gold plates and silver goblets, those gem encrusted gowns, the carefully carved furniture and store rooms full of food, drink, fabric and wood are not enough, could never repay the kindness they have shown.

"God keep and bless you all!" she shouts out the window and she will pray for just that each and every night. The silver thread of her banner catches in the sunlight and Madge vows that the house of Bedford will survive, for her parents' sake and for all those who have shown them such limitless loyalty.

_This is not the end._

* * *

The ride to London is torturous, a fear of ambush staying all their tongues.

Will the Yorkists catch them?

Will they make it to London unharmed?

Will it even matter if they do?

* * *

Madge keeps her eyes fixed on the window and when she sees London looming before them, she cannot say she is relieved.

_Which is the greater of two evils_ , she wonders.

_Rebels who would burn me for my blood?_

_Or my King?_

* * *

They stop before the city's gates, Sir Thomas riding out ahead of them.

"Who goes there?" a guard calls from the gatehouse, his shout tinged with fear.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Bedford and Clarence, niece to his Majesty, King Coriolanus of England! We request entrance!" Sir Thomas answers and there is a pause, one Madge cannot understand. Why do they not open the gates?

"Prove it!" one of the guards yells down at them. Madge can see Sir Thomas bristle.

"How dare you refuse to open your gates to the King's blood kin! Our lord the Duke of Bedford fights for his King and you would deny his wife and daughter safe passage?"

Madge is distracted from the guard's reply by her mother moving beside her. The dismal weather and long ride have only worsened her condition and she looks too weak even to stand.

"I must go out," her mother says feebly and Madge shakes her head.

"Mother, you can't!"

"They want proof, I shall give it to them."

Madge wants to argue but it is clear her mother will not listen. She struggles out of the carriage, her ladies helping to support her and Madge prays she will not collapse right there in the street.

"My lady!" Sir George squawks when he notices her mother leaning against the side of the carriage, her breathing laboured. He scrambles down from his horse and takes hold of her arm to keep her steady. She leans into him and looks up at the guard wall, her face dangerously pale, all the veins visible beneath her skin.

"I am Lady Margaret, daughter of Prince Henry, Duke of Clarence, granddaughter of King Henry IV of England, wife of Lord Joseph, Duke of Bedford and niece to your King, Coriolanus of England. I demand you open these gates and allow us to pass so I may see my uncle."

There is strength in her mother's voice, an authority and iron Madge would never have guessed her frail mother capable of.

It takes only moments for the guards to order the gates opened. Sir George helps her mother back inside and she collapses in her seat, chest rattling as she tries to breathe. Madge takes her hand and squeezes it tight.

"We shall be there soon, Mother. We shall be safe."

(Madge wishes she could believe that)

* * *

There is a servant of the King's waiting for them when they reach Westminster, the badge on his uniform curdling Madge's stomach. He bows as she dismounts the carriage.

"The King bids you welcome, my Lady, and wishes you and the Duchess to follow me to his Majesty's audience chamber."

Madge expected such a request, but even still, it leaves her cold all over.

"My mother is too ill to see anyone, she must be conveyed straight to bed. I will see his Majesty," she offers, gathering courage around herself like armor. The man looks unconvinced and Madge hardens her voice.

"The King will not take kindly to the Duchess being so poorly treated. She needs rest, please show her to her rooms."

The threat of the King's displeasure is enough to make up his mind.

"Of course, my lady, right away. But will you not need someone to show you to the King's audience chamber?"

Madge shakes her head and turns to look down the hall, feeling like she's about to walk to her own execution.

"I know the way."

* * *

Madge waits outside the doors as she is announced and tries to fortify her heart. _Better me than mother. She cannot take this torment, sick as she is._ The doors swing open and Madge squares her shoulder, marching in with all her dignity. _I am a Bedford. I have royal blood in my veins. I am not afraid._

The King sits in his throne but he looks older by decades since last Madge has seen him. He is dressed in dark maroon, lines carved deep in his skin. The Queen beside him is not the bejeweled woman of ice Madge remembers, but hunched and suspicious in her throne, with hostile eyes and a dress of somber blue. Prince Cato has a savage look on his face, his hand clamped firmly on the hilt of his dagger. He must be at least sixteen now and Madge can see the itch to be out fighting painted clearly across his face.

(is it wrong that she wishes he were out there, rather than here?)

Pale, dying sunlight flitters through the windows and the luster of Westminster has clearly faded. She curtsies low and waits for the King to order her to rise.

"Lady Madge," he begins, rolling her name around on his tongue, "wherever is your mother?"

"The Duchess has regretfully fallen ill, your Majesty. She has been brought to bed."

Madge waits, eyes staring at the dusty floor and wonders if he will ever allow her to stand.

"Why have you come?" he demands, a cruel edge to his voice. Madge swallows, throat dry.

"We had received word from my lord father that the Yorkists were coming. We hoped-"

"You hoped to hide here," he interrupts, cutting across her like a knife. "Five years you have not deigned to visit and now you wish to hide behind our walls," he accuses and Madge clenches her hands in the fabric of her dress.

"My most sincere apologies if we have offended you, your Majesty, but we have not come to court because of the danger of the roads and the instability plaguing the kingdom."

A scoff comes from Prince Cato and Madge continues, feels the weight of her and her mother's lives pressing down on her shoulders.

"My lady mother and I have prayed for your victory every day and night while my lord father fights even now to defend your crown. I have hung a banner on our castle walls to show the world that the Bedfords stand side by side with their king. We are your Majesty's most loyal and humble servants."

She closes her eyes and waits for his judgement, their fates resting in his hands.

"Many have renounced their allegiance to us," he murmurs and Madge breathes in deeply.

"We have never your forsaken you, your Majesty," she replies, "you are our King and our blood, placed upon the throne by God himself."

"Indeed. You may rise."

She does, the entire royal family scrutinizing her closely.

"One of the Queen's ladies was not so loyal," the King tells her almost casually, a glint in his dark eyes. "She has since lost her head."

He smirks and Madge bites down hard on her tongue, forces her expression to remain neutral.

"As such, there is a vacancy in the Queen's household. Seeing as you are a noble daughter of loyal stock and possessing of royal blood, we think you would make a good replacement."

He narrows his eyes, watching closely for her reaction. She curtsies again, bowing her head.

"I would be most honoured, your Majesty."

"Good, you shall begin tomorrow. Tonight, see to your mother. We will send the royal physician to tend to her."

"Thank you, your Majesty. You are too kind."

He smirks again, tongue darting out to lick the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.

"We do hope she will be well enough to break her fast with us tomorrow," he says and even though the words are innocent enough, Madge recognizes the command behind them.

"I am sure she will be."

"Good. You may go now, the physician will soon join you."

Madge holds in her sigh of relief at being dismissed and curtsies again. She leaves the room as quickly as she can without running and clutches her rosary to her heart.

_Let this war be over soon_

_Let us leave this place_

_Let this not be our tomb_

* * *

Her mother does not recover but soldiers on valiantly anyway, attending on the King whenever he wishes.

"It has been too long, Margaret," he croons and leads her to the seat beside him, seems not to care that the life in her eyes is flickering and fading with every passing day.

"Indeed it has been," her mother always agrees, voice the faintest breath of sound.

She is wasting away here, but she is not the only one, the entire court wilted and lifeless. These once splendid halls are drab and dingy, no longer echoing with music and laughter. The dark cloud that has lingered for so long over England has finally reached the palace that conjured it, the King suffering as his people have done for decades.

Madge waits on the Queen and it is clear that the royal family are terrified, can feel Lady Katniss' net tightening around them. Their eyes dart about at every sound, every scrap of news devoured. They jump at shadows, punish any who even look at them crosswise and they are irritable and snappish, suspicious of everyone and everything. They cannot survive like this for much longer, no one can.

(they won't have to)

* * *

As February begins to die, Madge spends her nights on her knees in prayer, hands clasped and head bowed.

_I beg you Lord, please keep my father safe._

_Please, bring him home to us_

* * *

(but does the Lord answer prayers that come from a house of evil?)

(Madge is afraid to find out)

* * *

March rises over London in a blanket of fog and with it comes Madge's fifthteenth birthday, but she does not tell anyone and is glad of the lack of celebration.

She does not think she and the King share the same taste in entertainment.

* * *

(her mother presses a gift into her palm and when Madge opens it, she almost sobs.

It is a set of miniatures, one of each of her parents, held together with hinges.

"To remember us by," her mother whispers and Madge almost chokes on her tone of defeat)

(Madge does not want to remember them)

(remembering them means all she has left are memories)

* * *

A handful of days later, Madge is helping the Queen dress when a knock sounds at the door.

"Answer it!" Queen Enobaria orders, voice cracking like a whip and Madge curtsies, an angry spring coiled in her chest. She hurries over to the door and opens it to find a frightened looking page waiting on the other side. His face softens in relief when he sees it is her and not the Queen.

"I bring summons from the his Majesty the King. He wishes the Queen to join him in the hall immediately."

Madge nods, thanks him and watches him sprint away while she has to turn back to her mistress, the Queen's expression poisoned and sour.

"What did he want?" she demands and Madge reigns in her frustration. Everyday is a constant stream of belligerent bullying and she is beginning to think she might be better off losing her head as the Queen's previous lady did.

"The King requests your presence, your Grace."

"Then hurry up and get back to work, we mustn't keep him waiting," she snaps as if Madge had been slacking off. Madge bites her tongue and does as she is bidden, lacing the Queen into her gown as quickly as she can. The other ladies fuss about with her hair and hennin and Madge wonders what news of the King's could be so urgent.

Victory perhaps?

Or is it defeat?

* * *

The King does not waste time with plesantries.

"We are riding out," he announces and people around her gasp in shock. Madge furrows her brow.

"My ministers think it will do the men good to see their King, so we will go and meet them on the battlefield. With God's grace, this will put a swift end to this cursed war and see our kingdom righted once again," he continues and Madge feels like a ray of sunshine is beaming down directly on her head. The King will be gone, they will be free of him, at least for a time. She sends a silent thanks to God for His mercy.

"Let me come with you, Father," Prince Cato begs, bloodlust thick in his voice.

"That will do more harm than good," the King says, brushing him off. "It would be foolish to risk both King and heir on one battlefield."

Cato stiffens, eyes burning.

"I am old enough to fight! I should not be left cooped up here with the women!" he growls and the King turns sharply to look at him, eyes colder than ice.

"You will do as we tell you or you shall suffer as all others that disobey us. Is that clear?"

Prince Cato stares in shock a moment before wilting and Madge frowns.

_What kind of man threatens his own son?_

_(a wicked, wicked, wicked one)_

"Yes, Father."

"Good. We must now be off. We shall expect you all to pray for us and keep Westminster ready for our return."

Madge curtsies as he passes and cannot wait to tell her mother of this blessing.

* * *

She finds her mother lying in bed, her food barely touched. Madge sits by her side and takes her hand.

"The King is going off to battle, to inspire his men."

"So we have lost then," her mother breathes and Madge cocks her head in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"In all the years, with all the battles, when has the King ever gone out to see his men?"

Madge opens her mouth to reply and realizes the answer is never.

"If he is leaving now, it is because he is running away."

"He wouldn't abandon his son, or the Queen, would he?" Madge asks, cannot believe she actually wishes he were still here. Her mother looks at her with pitying eyes.

"Wouldn't he?"

_Yes,_ she admits _, yes he would._

* * *

The King's departure has left a ragged wound in Westminster, his unflinching arrogance no longer present to stem the flow of desolation flooding London. It is obvious now, without his overpowering menace, to see just how dire their situation is.

The House of Lancaster is losing.

Katniss of York, her followers emblazoned with her badge of a white rose, so vividly contrasting with the King's bloody red, marches through England like a storm, churning Lancastrian armies into corpses and convincing others to turn their coats. Her ranks swell everyday and there is nothing the King's flagging support can do to stop her. Sooner or later they will all be caught up in her current, swept away by the House of York and it's vengeful lady.

The only question is when.

* * *

Madge relishes the moments she can be alone, away from the Queen and her brittle temper and caustic words. She sneaks away to wander Westminster's long halls and could almost believe there was no war, if only her heart didn't ache so for her father. The palace is so quiet now, entirely unlike the one she remembers from childhood and there's peace in that, however fragile. The only sound is the echo of her boots and Madge wishes she knew what happened beyond these walls, but news has been sluggish since the King left, trickling slowly like water from a tiny crack in the wall.

They heard, over a week after the fact, of the Earl of Warwick and William Herbert smashing the King's reinforcements from Wales, leaving them unable to meet up with the main body of the King's army, gearing up for one great, last battle. This will be the one that determines the outcome of the war, the victor claiming the throne of England.

(Madge tries not to think about what will be left to the loser)

Agonizingly slow reports come in that young Gale of Salisbury inspires many to flock to the Yorkist banner, his words stirring loyalty into their hearts. Madge stops by a window with slightly warped glass and tries to guess at what he might be saying, what spurs them on to treason. The grass outside is sodden with late season snow and Madge hopes her father keeps warm, hopes he crushes Gale of Salisbury to dust, hopes he routs Haymitch of Warwick and leaves Katniss of York destitute and friendless.

Madge may not bear the King any love, but the curse of her blood means she is a Lancaster, her life depending on a Yorkist defeat. More importantly, she knows what tragedies will await her parents if the Yorkists prove triumphant and Madge cannot bear to see them suffer. They have only done what they had no choice to, for had not every great noble man sworn an oath to serve his King? Was he not anointed by the Lord himself?

(in a different world, Madge may have chosen to be a Yorkist, would have seen the injustices committed by King Coriolanus and wanted him condemned to Hell for it)

(but this is not a different world and Madge has no luxury to choose)

(and even if she did, she would always choose her family, over anything, over everything)

Her musings are interrupted by a throaty giggle, followed soon after by enthusiastic grunts. Madge frowns in confusion but it soon vanishes when heavy panting drifts towards her from down the hall. Her face stains red and she may still be a virginal maid, but she is no idiot. Servants talk and Madge has heard enough to guess what is happening nearby, a low, ecstatic moan making it all the clearer.

(as horrified as she is, this is almost a blessing, her mind entirely distracted from the terror that awaits her loved ones)

(all she can think about now is how utterly, utterly mortified she is)

Madge, perhaps childishly, covers her ears and means to rush past the not-entirely-closed door a few feet down the hall, but just as she is passing the doorway, her eyes catch on silver thread shining in watery sunlight. She pauses and the scene comes into focus before her, worse than she would have guessed.

She is facing Prince Cato's black and silver clad back, his fair head almost glowing in March sunbeams, as he grunts and thrusts up under the skirts of one of the Queen's ladies, one Madge never has the interest to remember the name of. Her legs are tied around his waist and her head thrown back, her long black hair flowing freely.

Madge takes a step back and then a few more, determined to be as quiet as possible. She cannot imagine the prince would be pleased at her witnessing this event and would rather not take any chances. She whirls then and hitches up her skirts, flying down the hall at an unladylike pace, and plans to purge this moment from her memories. Even still, she cannot stop her mind from wandering just a bit, curiosity slinking up her spine. _How long have they been doing this?_ she wonders, and _are there others, or is Prince Cato dallying with only her_ (the lady Madge cannot for the life of her put a name to)? _Is this lust? Or is Prince Cato actually capable of something as human as love?_

In any other circumstance, Madge might ask, but Prince Cato would probably slit her throat if she tried. And if that lady is his sweetheart, she'd probably be just as likely to as well.

Madge shudders.

* * *

Less than a week later, her mother's grave pronouncement is proven true.

Madge sits beside the Queen, embroidering a gift for her father and surreptitiously attempting to puzzle out Prince Cato's lover, Lady Clove (Madge has finally remembered her name), when a messenger arrives, his expression grim. Madge inhales sharply and sets down her needlework, heart nearly racing out of her chest.

_Please be alright Father, please please be alright_

"What is it?" the Queen asks, the tremor in her voice making it clear she has already guessed.

"I have just come from Towton," the messenger begins and there are nightmares playing over in his eyes. Madge squeezes her hands together and wishes her mother was beside her, rather than laid up in bed.

"It was the bloodiest battle I have ever seen. I would wager there were more dead there than in any other battle on English soil," he continues, voice haunted.

"Enough of that, what news?" the Queen huffs impatiently but Madge is not sure she wants to know, would rather have a few more minutes of blissful ignorance. The messenger swallows.

"The King's forces were utterly destroyed. Lady Katniss of York and her cousins, Haymitch of Warwick and Gale of Salisbury, slaughtered them all...it was a _massacre_. Only a handful escaped, including his Majesty, who has fled to Scotland. They are marching here now, to take London and declare a new sovereign."

The silence that follows is deafening.

_Father, you must be alright, you must have escaped._

_You must._

"We will bar the gates and push back the Yorkist scum!" Prince Cato declares, voice hot and angry. The messenger shakes his head.

"The mayor has already said he will not," he informs them and the women around the Queen start weeping, their embroidery tumbling to the floor. Madge feels like the world around her has gone dark, every candle snuffed out. _We are doomed._

"They would abandon their King?" Cato spits, knuckles white on his dagger and Madge wants to laugh and sob all at the same time. _He has already abandoned them!_ she wants to scream but instead she picks up her needle and thread with numb fingers.

"We must get to sanctuary," she whispers and Cato whirls on her, face burnt red with his fury.

"I will not hide like some coward!" he bellows in her face, spittle showering her cheeks but Madge does not flinch, feels almost like she has been hollowed out, all her emotions scraped clean.

"Then you will die, struck down by the Yorkists."

"You filthy whore _, shut up_!" he screeches and his knuckles are violent as they collide with her face, knocking her to the floor. Her knees shriek as they collide with the stone and the ladies near her scream in shock. The skin is scraped from her hands and Madge feels dazed, her cheekbone aching. Cato grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her head back, his nostrils flaring and tears spring to her eyes with the pain, a gasp spilling from her lips.

"How dare you speak to me like that, how dare you! I will be your King!"

"Enough," the Queen states, voice slicing through his fog of rage.

"You heard what she said?" Cato demands and Madge feels lightheaded, the world blinking white and bright.

"It is of no consequence, we must prepare. Come now," she orders and Cato throws Madge to the floor, her chin slamming down painfully. She bites her tongue and tastes her own hot blood, the world swimming in her eyes. The Queen and Cato rush off, followed by all their attendants and Madge is left alone in a sticky, red puddle, pain sparking across her body.

_So this is how it ends, then._

_The House of Lancaster has fallen._

_Now rises the House of York._

* * *

Madge eventually finds the strength to heave herself up and back to her chambers, every part of her throbbing.

_What now?_ she thinks, spitting blood into a bowl.

_What now?_

* * *

She awakes the next morning to find the Queen and Prince Cato have disappeared in the night, have abandoned them to the mercies of the approaching Yorkists.

Madge wanders the deserted halls of Westminster with a chill in her heart, her footsteps echoing in ancient halls as she hugs herself. Her King, her Queen, her Prince, they've all forsaken her and she knows she has no choice but to stay and await her conquerors, cannot run or hide. Lady Bedford cannot be moved and Madge cannot leave her, _will not_ , so she does the only thing she can.

She clutches her rosary and kneels in the chapel, stays on cold, hard floors all day and night. No one is coming to rescue her, no ally or white knight, so Madge prays, for her father, for her mother, for Lady Katniss' mercy. It may not be enough, but Madge has no sword, no shield, no quiver full of arrows.

At fifteen, Madge of Bedford learns she has only herself.


	3. to kneel before the queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what matters most is survival, no matter the cost

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_part one_  
_now rises the sun of york_  
_chapter two_  
_to kneel before the queen_

It is mid-March, 1468, when Katniss of York enters London.

Madge climbs up as many stairs in Westminster as she can, up to the tallest point she can reach and watches the triumphant procession from a window. She takes in the streets swollen with cheering men, women and children and their delight echoes up to her, her fingers clutching at the rough stone of the window ledge. Banners and streamers wave and white rose petals float through the air, tossed up by joyous hands. London’s officials wait in their state clothes and horns blare as Katniss of York rides in on her horse, a crown of white roses on her head.

The people are small and distant from Madge’s perch, but she knows that has to be Katniss, the crowds bowing as she passes. Men on horses follow after her, probably her cousins, and a sour taste fills Madge’s mouth.

_Katniss of York. Haymitch of Warwick. Gale of Salisbury._

_My judges, jury and executioners. What punishment have you in store for me?_

London rejoices below her, finally free of King Coriolanus, and Madge watches with hostile eyes, knowing her sentence has just begun.

* * *

 

Madge is fifteen years old and never has her life been more uncertain than it is right now.

Everyone they’d brought from Bedford Castle joins her in their suite of rooms, much too nervous to be caught out in the hallways. The Yorkists will surely come to take possession of Westminster once they’re done with their procession in the city and though their chambers are crowded, with nowhere near enough room for everyone to be comfortable, the illusion of security they are afforded by being together makes it worth it. And it won’t be for long anyway, the Yorkists will soon have to inform Madge and her mother of what their future holds.

(and she cannot imagine it will be good)

In the meantime, they try and keep themselves busy, even as worry rages like a river in their bones. Madge focuses on mending the torn hem of someone’s dress, as there is no seamstress among them and it is too risky to venture out to try and find one. Her fingers move methodically and no one speaks, anxiety weighing down their tongues. Eyes stay stuck on the door, just waiting for it to open and even with the work; Madge cannot keep her mind from straying to her father.

_You must be alright Father, you must be_

Her mother is laid up in bed, trying to gather her strength and Madge is left in charge, everyone hovering around her as if expecting guidance. She has none to give, is in desperate need of some herself when the door opens without warning, not even a knock.

Everyone in the room is silent, holding their breath, all eyes on the figure before them and Madge feels a thick, syrupy hatred bubble in her veins. Standing in the doorway is a young man only as few years older than her, with dark hair and grey eyes that are almost blue. There is a white rose sewn onto his surcoat alongside a double headed eagle badge she does not recognize and finally, the time has come.

The Yorkists have sent for them.

“Thom Oakfield, Baron Lovell,” he says, bowing low and flourishing his cap. Everyone turns to her, waiting for her reaction and she knows she should be sweet and docile, attempt to curry favor with this messenger but her body trembles with rage at these victors come to claim their spoils and fear at what destiny awaits her. She straightens her shoulders and pricks her finger with her needle, uses the sharp pain to help steady herself.

“And what brings you here, Lord Lovell?” she asks, the words burning holes in her tongue. He straightens up; his eyes stuttering for a moment over the bruises Prince Cato’d left behind on her cheek.

“I bring word from her Majesty the Queen.”

There is pleasure and satisfaction in his voice as he says it and Madge feels her stomach tighten, acid climbing up her throat and filling her mouth.

“Katniss of York has been declared queen then?” she questions, even though she’s already sure of the answer. Sir Thom blinks at her, probably surprised that she is so forward, but all her good breeding seems to have evaporated.

“Yes,” he responds, uneasy under her stare, “Queen of England and Lord of Ireland.”

Madge bites her tongue and almost laughs, though not from mirth. Katniss of York is England’s first ever reigning queen and Madge should be able to join the throngs of cheering citizens, not locked up here seething with hatred.

(and she supposes ‘Lady of Ireland’ does not sound nearly imposing enough for all those stuffy men who make the rules)

She inhales and forces her tone to remain even.

“And what has she to say to us?”

“I am meant to deliver my message to the Duchess of Bedford,” he replies with a frown, squeezing the brim of his cap.

“She is ill, you will have to talk to me,” Madge tells him, voice hard like a command and he frowns deeper, entirely unsure what to do. He was most probably expecting a demure young lady who spoke softly and wouldn’t meet his eyes or question his words. Madge is too tired to be polite, feels weary in her bones. If Queen Katniss is to ruin her, Madge cannot find an interest in behaving. Sir Thom swallows.

“The Queen and her advisors request that you, your mother the duchess and your household remain within your chambers until such a time as she is ready to summon you and discuss your future.”

Madge shakes her head, a bitter flood welling inside of her.

“We are to be prisoners then.”

Sir Thom won’t meet her eyes.

“It is for your own protection, as there are those who would be glad to revenge themselves on Coriolanus’ family.”

Madge almost snorts at the lie, at the lack of ‘King’ before King Coriolanus’ name. Instead, she merely levels Sir Thom with her most unimpressed glare, wants him to know she is not fooled by the Queen’s paltry attempt to appear benevolent.

“Food and drink will be brought to you of course,” he hurries to continue, eyes focused slightly above her head.

“And a physician,” Madge states and Sir Thom does meet her eyes finally, startled she is making demands.  

“My mother is ill; she will need a physician to attend her.”

“Oh, yes, ah, I shall inform her Majesty,” Sir Thom mumbles, looking off to her right. Madge nods and Sir Thom drops into a hasty bow.

“I shall return when the Queen is ready to see you,” he informs her and then turns quickly, clearly desperate to escape from her. Madge is glad to see the back of him.

“Wait! Lord Lovell, wait,” she calls suddenly, heart thudding. She was so distracted by anger she had almost forgotten the most important thing of all. Sir Thom turns back slowly with a grimace.

“Yes, my lady?”

Madge swallows, fear like ice against her skin.

“Is there any word of my father, the Duke of Bedford?”

She would curse the tremor in her voice but she is too terrified to even think and Sir Thom looks down, fiddling with his cap.

“I do not think it is my place,” he says and Madge feels the sudden urge to vomit.

“Please Lord Lovell, we have not heard from him in months, I beg you for any news you may have.”

Perhaps it is the tears in her eyes or the pleading in her voice but Sir Thom relents, an awkward empathy colouring his face.

“My apologies, my lady, but the Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton.”

The world seems to have fallen away from her, leaving her alone in a sea of black.

“You are certain?” she hears herself ask, as if from underwater. Sir Thom nods.

“There is no doubt, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, voice oddly flat. He watches her for a moment more and Madge is not sure she is breathing, not sure she is even alive. Sir Thom bows again, says something she does not hear and then he is gone and Madge is sinking, dark waves crashing over her head. Someone touches her shoulder and she is vaguely aware of wailing, of sobbing, of the sounds of heartbreak all around her but she is frozen, despair keeping her chained and far away.

“Please do not speak of this to my mother, I will tell her when she awakes.”

She does not wait for an answer but stands, her legs weak and trembling. Hands reach for her but she ignores them and stumbles to her own chamber, connected to this one by a heavy gilded door. She steps inside and shuts it firmly, closing herself off from everyone else. She rests against the door for a moment, feeling winded, Thom’s words echoing around inside her.

_The Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton_

She places a hand on the stone wall, her nails digging into it and her knees knock together, a pain unlike any she had ever imagined swelling inside of her.

_Take care, my Madge._

_And you, Father._

She clutches her stomach with her free hand and the sobs are wrenched out of her, great, heaving sobs that send her to her knees.

_The Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton_

She folds inwards, crumpling and she cannot breathe, is drowning in her own tears.

_Papa papa papa you cannot be how can you no please please please papa no I can’t I no please no papa_

Madge curls up on the floor, a puddle of suffering and heartbreak. Misery wracks her body and she clings to herself, a desperate wail building in lungs.

_Papa!_

* * *

 

Her father is dead

She will _never_ forgive the Yorkists for this.

* * *

 

Madge has cried herself dry when she finally goes to her mother, her throat raw and her face red and swollen.

Her mother is sitting up in bed, her eyes sunken and ringed with purple. She has been growing worse every day and the thought that she could soon become an orphan steals the breath from Madge’s lungs. She sways and has to grab the door frame to keep from falling over, panic momentarily making her blind.

“Madge?” her mother questions, soft voice slicing through her haze of fear. _She’s still here. I’m not alone, not yet._

“Katniss of York is queen,” she begins and her mother frowns, reaching out her hand. Madge takes it and allows her mother to pull her gently over to her bed. She sits down on the edge of it, words crowding up inside her.

“She sent a messenger, Thom, Baron Lovell, to tell us we are prisoners here, until the Queen sees fit to summon us.”

Her mother nods and uses her thumb to wipe at a stray tear dribbling down Madge’s cheek.

“You have had news of your father?”

Madge ducks her head, a flood building behind her eyes. She’d thought she had no tears left to cry, but they come again, enough to wash her out to sea.

“He is dead, Mama, dead. They killed him at Towton.”

Madge cannot continue, sobs strangling her voice and her mother pulls her close, hands stroking her hair.

“Oh Madge, oh my sweet Madge,” she coos and Madge sinks into her mother’s chest, soaking her bedclothes and sheets. Madge clings to her, squeezes her too tight but she cannot help herself, almost paralyzed by fear and devastation.

With her eyes closed, Madge can see her father; pale and frightened as he’d rode away that final time, the glare of his armor hurting her eyes. She can hear him saying her name; the syllables wrapped in a bitter wind and feel his fingertips on her cheek, colder than the fall air. She had wanted to stop him then and had thought it brave not to, but now she thinks it was foolish, foolish and weak and cowardly. Brave would have been to stand up to the King, courage would have been to beg her father not to go without caring what anyone would have thought of her.

 _Come back Father, please come back to us,_ she wants to wail, even though she knows he can’t. _Come home!_

(but they have no home, not anymore)

* * *

 

Madge does not sleep that night, though she pretends to.

To try and accommodate all the people now confined to their quarters, Madge gives up her bed and shares her mother’s instead. Her mother, who had not shed a tear as she held Madge, whose words had been soothing and whose hands had been steady, spends that night spiraling to pieces.

Madge lies on her side and doesn’t move while her mother bawls, the whole bed shuddering with her grief. Her mother had wanted to be strong for her, so Madge allows her as much privacy as she can while she mourns, her voice repeating _Joseph Joseph Joseph_ until Madge feels as if the word has been carved into her skin. She cannot see her mother but can imagine her, huddled around her pillow and gasping for breath through her wracking sorrow.

They have lost the same man, though he meant very different things to both of them, but Madge doesn’t think that matters. Father or husband, he was the man they both loved best and his death has cut a ragged hole into their lives, one Madge doubts will ever be sewn entirely shut.

“Joseph, Joseph, do not leave me Joseph,” her mother begs and Madge digs her nails into her arm.

_He hasn’t left us._

_The Yorkists have stolen him from us._

_(and they will pay for it)_

* * *

 

In the weeks that follow, Madge starts to plan.

She needs to be ready for her meeting with the Queen, the fate of herself, her mother and their entire household riding on its outcome. She needs a strategy, needs to win over Queen Katniss. They are entirely at her mercy but Madge will not let her take anything else from them.

They have suffered enough.

Because the Duke of Bedford died a traitor, it is entirely possible that the Queen will have him attainted, and if that happens, everything that belonged to him, all his lands, wealth and titles will be forfeit to the crown. They are meant to pass on to Madge as his only child, but the Queen could take them all and leave her with nothing. Madge will have no legal right to argue for them and she cannot accept that, feels like her heart is bleeding just from the thought of his murderers rejoicing in his wealth. They could take her mother’s inheritance as well, that royal dukedom of Clarence and all its associated lands, castles and wealth. It had been passed down to Margaret from her father, Prince Henry, and though her mother had not fought against the Queen, Madge does not trust the Yorkists to let her keep what is rightfully hers.

Perhaps they will seek to argue that as her husband was acting as Duke of Clarence in her name, the dukedom should be forfeit along with his Bedford estates. Perhaps they will insist that she too is a traitor, for not renouncing her husband and uncle. Perhaps they will not justify it at all and merely seize it, desperate and greedy for all that land and money. If they do, Madge and her mother will be left destitute and starving. No home, no money, no anything at all. Worse, is that as King Coriolanus’ relatives, they have a claim to the throne, one that would be carried on with any children they had. The Yorkists can’t allow them to raise anymore Lancastrian claimants, so they might find themselves prisoners for the rest of their lives, locked away where they will never run the risk of falling with child.

They might even be executed, to ensure no one ever rises up in their names.

Madge knows her future is bleak, knows she is fighting an uphill battle, but she cannot surrender now. She will do everything within her power to keep herself afloat, to ensure the survival of the Bedford family.

_Let the Yorkists have England, they will never have me._

She lays out the gowns she’d brought with her and there is little selection. She needs to look perfect, will need every advantage she can muster to go to battle with this victorious queen, but unfortunately, she has only three plus the one she arrived in, and four is rather pathetic number to choose from.

Her travelling dress is grey with faint white embroidery, rather plain and simple and Madge knows it will never do. She would look weak to come to them in something so unremarkable, so drab. She would look beaten and in need of sympathy. On the other hand, her grandest gown, purple and gold and dripping in precious jewels, would send the opposite message, would remind them of just how much a threat she could be. That is too dangerous, will make them more likely to strike out against her if she forces them to acknowledge just how much wealth she is set to inherit, just what kind of blood flows through her veins. She needs something in between, something that commands respect, as she is the daughter of a duke and descendant of kings, but still portrays her as sweet, innocent and non-threatening. She needs to walk the finest of all lines, needs them to dismiss her at the same time as they recognize her.  

There is a pink gown with gold roses stitched across the fabric but it makes her look too young, too naïve. They will laugh at any demands she makes, will take everything from her without batting an eye. She turns to her final gown, her very last hope. It is emerald with gold brocade and dark green velvet cuffs and collar. It is lovely, but not overly so, looks like a fine lady’s gown but not one fit for a queen. She imagines paring it with a white girdle and plain white kirtle, to invoke purity and innocence. She will leave her hair free and unbound, to remind them of her youth, while she will wear any jewelry she has, to ensure they recall that she is the daughter of a duke and deserves more than to be pushed around.

Madge looks down at the dress and nods. It is not a perfect plan, but it is a start.

_The Yorkists may have won the war, but I will win this battle_

_(I have to)_

* * *

 

(She knows it is dangerous, foolish, stupid, but she does it anyway)

(she takes scrap pieces of linen, old rags, torn edges of dresses and attacks them savagely with her needle, covers them in red, red roses)

(it could cost her everything if the Yorkists found her out, might ruin her before she even gets the chance to plead her case)

(she can’t help it though, rebellion burning like an inferno in her stomach)

( _stop_ she can imagine a hundred angry Yorkists voices demanding)

( _make me_ she shouts back)

* * *

 

The Queen’s physician comes every other night to check on her mother and after three and a half weeks of waiting, Madge stops him as he goes to leave. She smiles as kindly as she can and presses several gold coins into his hand. She hadn’t brought many with her, but some things are worth paying for.

“I just wanted to thank you, for your service to my mother. I think she is much comforted.”

His fingers close around her money.

“It is my pleasure, my lady. Anything I can do to help.”

Madge nods and he turns to leave.

“I think she is much grieved by all this…not knowing. If we only we had some indication of when we would be summoned to see the Queen, I think it would greatly ease her mind,” she says to his back and he pauses, hand still warm around her money.

“I’m sure it would,” he murmurs in agreement and Madge smiles to herself as he leaves.

She won’t have the Yorkists catch her off guard, won’t have them summon her when she might not be properly dressed or prepared. They will arrive unannounced she is sure, but she will be ready for them. All she needs now is to plan out exactly what she’ll say.

_Be wary Yorkists, I’m coming for you._

* * *

 

Madge spends a lot of time looking out windows.

Locked up as she is, with her only contact being servants with strict orders to remain tight lipped, windows are her only look into the outside world. She peers down at the Thames and the barges slowly sliding through the water, at the tiny people going about their daily lives. There is an ache in her chest, dull and throbbing when she looks at those people, happy and rejoicing in England’s new state. Madge craves their freedom and almost cries at the fact that so many would crave her life just as strongly.

She wonders if anyone down there ever looks up at Westminster and sees her face, pale and miserable, watching them from high windows. She imagines small children whispering of a ghost haunting the palace, all of them terrified and giggling. Tales of a young lady who died in some tragic circumstance, whose spirit lingers in drafty halls. She can’t help but wonder if that might be what the Yorkists want, to keep her here until she dies. Maybe, one day, she _will_ be a ghost, still locked up in Westminster, a prisoner even in death.

Madge spends a lot of time trapped behind windows.

* * *

 

(nightmares come every time she closes her eyes, horrid, bloody dreams of death)

(always her father, butchered before her)

(and always, she can do nothing but watch)

* * *

 

Exactly eight days after she pressed her gold into his palm, the Queen’s physician whispers into Madge’s ear.

“Tomorrow.”

She smiles.

Her time has come.

* * *

 

That night when the servants come with supper, Madge stops them with a special request.

“I would very much enjoy a bath tomorrow morning,” she says, every ounce of her charm poured into her words. The servants exchange nervous glances.

“I am not...entirely sure if that will be possible, my lady,” one of them mumbles without meeting her eyes. Madge frowns in carefully rehearsed confusion.

“Why ever not? We are the Queen’s guests aren’t we? Does the Queen not want her guests to be comfortable? Or have I misunderstood?”

The silence crackles, the servants standing on unsteady ground and Madge knows she’s won.

“Of course, my lady,” one of the servants finally caves. “We shall have a tub and water brought for you tomorrow.”

Madge beams. “You are ever so kind. Do give the Queen my compliments.”

They nod and shuffle out, Madge’s smile falling away.

_Getting a bath may have been simple, but let’s see how I do against the real test._

* * *

 

(Madge convinces herself she is brave, strong, unafraid)

(these Yorkists are villains, monsters and Madge will face them head on, demand what is hers and never back down)

(the truth is not quite so sterling)

(the truth is that Madge is young, scared and grasping at straws)

(Madge hides everything behind bravado and righteous anger, but she is terrified, so, so terrified)

(she is fifteen and has to fight for her life, claw her way out of a grave blood and politics have thrown her into)

(Madge is afraid, but she cannot admit it, not even to herself)

(anger is her shield, hatred her sword and she will fight, because really, what other choice does she have?)

* * *

 

She wakes early and lays out the clothes and jewels she will wear to see the Queen. She smoothes out every crease, shines every gem and assures herself that there are no rips or tears.

Everything must be perfect.

She is ready when the servants carry in the wooden tub, lined with a sheet to keep her safe from splinters. They pour in buckets and buckets of water and Madge climbs in, gritting her teeth from the chill.

(perhaps she should have specified wanting a warm bath)

She scrubs herself clean from toes to hair, needs to shine when she makes her appearance before the new court. She dries herself carefully, but not roughly, when she’s done and dabs rosewater on her skin. Her mother’s ladies help her dress and they comb her hair until it is smooth and soft, bright gold and gleaming. She tucks sweet smelling flowers into her bodice and thinks about trying to cover up the fading bruises on her cheek, but decides against it. Let them see that the Lancastrians have caused her suffering as well.

Dressed and ready, Madge settles herself in a chair and turns to her embroidery, cultivates the appearance of this being any other day. She engages in idle chit chat with the ladies, behaves as she does every other day and that is how Sir Thom finds her when he accompanies the servants who bring their food.

“Lord Lovell,” she greets pleasantly and he stops, blinking in confusion. She sets down her embroidery and bows her head to him while he continues to look flustered, his eyes skittering once again over the yellow remains of Prince Cato’s angry parting gift.

“Lady Madge,” he finally manages, ducking into a hasty bow, “the Queen is ready for you.”

Madge smiles and Sir Thom looks her over, surprise washing over his face.

“Wonderful, I have so been looking forward to meeting Her Majesty,” she says cheerfully and stands, placing her embroidery on a table. Sir Thom seems off put by her change of attitude since their last meeting and hesitates by the door.

“Yes…yes she is very glad to see you too, I am sure.”

Madge smiles as kindly as she can and waits. Sir Thom starts and offers her his arm.

“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he fumbles and Madge curtsies slightly and takes his arm. He leads her from the room and down the long halls and someone has taken the time to bring back some of Westminster’s old luster. The floors have been swept and fresh rushes set down, the windows dusted and the braziers shined. New banners hang on the walls, blazoned with white roses and elegant cats. Madge supposes they must be Katniss’ badges, replacing King Coriolanus’ wolves and red roses.

Sir Thom doesn’t speak on their way down and Madge is glad, uses the silence to gather her thoughts. _I must be pleasant, polite, respectful. Demure and conciliatory and firm. Do not let them walk all over me, do not let them condemn me for sins I have not committed and steal everything I have. They have no right to my inheritance. I must fight for my life, for Mother’s, for everyone we’ve brought with us._

Sir Thom releases her and hurries to inform a herald of her approach. She waits outside the great doors to the hall and banishes memories of other royal audiences. This is a different monarch, a Yorkist monarch. The doors finally open and Madge squares her shoulders. _This is it._ She lifts the hem of her skirt and walks inside, as graceful as she can manage with shaking legs. _Make them love me; make them see me as no threat at all._ There are guards lining the hall, all dressed in green and wearing fine white rose livery badges. At the far end is a gilded wooden throne, the one King Coriolanus always sat upon as he observed whoever was unfortunate enough to find themselves in his company. His great banner is gone, the wall a slightly different shade than the rest of the room.

Madge looks first to the men standing on either side of the throne and feels her heart harden. On the Queen’s right is a man about her mother’s age, dressed in old velvet and weighed down with chains of office. His hair is nearly black and hangs down around his haggard face, the cheeks and chin rough and unshaved. He has brown skin and bloodshot eyes the colour of grey stone, his shoulders hunched. On first glance she would call him scraggly and ill kept, but she can see shrewd calculation in his eyes, a reminder that he has made a queen of his young cousin, that he is no fool, regardless of the rumors of his drunken behavior. Many would discount him on appearance alone but Madge is no simpleton. Haymitch of Warwick is her enemy, she will not forget it.

Her eyes skip over Queen Katniss to the boy on her left, tension in every muscle of his body. He’s the kind of boy many would swoon at, tall, broad shouldered and well built with a strong jaw and rich dark hair. His eyes are bright silver, make her imagine full moons at midnight and she’d guess he was somewhere around seventeen. He has all the looks of a knight errant of troubadour songs but Madge is not moved. Just like with Prince Cato, she finds herself unable to appreciate his charms, cannot find him handsome. Those pretty eyes are narrowed with accusation, his jaw clenched tight. Gale of Salisbury, that loyal champion of the Yorkist cause, despises her, could not hide it if he tried. No matter what Madge says, she knows she has no hope of swaying his opinion. His counsel to the Queen is obvious. Gale of Salisbury would deprive her of everything.

_Let him hate me, for the feeling will always be mutual._

Finally, she looks to Katniss, Queen of England. She is just eighteen and has Haymitch’s grey eyes and Gale’s dark hair, twisted up in complicated plaits. There is a crown on her head, gold and bejeweled, but nowhere near as grand as Madge has seen King Coriolanus wear. Her skin sparkles with gold dust and her dress is stiff and made of beautiful silver tissue, diamonds gleaming from the fabric. She is garbed as the most magnificent of queens, but she shifts uncomfortably on her throne, as if she has sat on something sharp. Her back is a little too straight, her eyes somewhat overbright. Madge wonders if that is some ploy, carefully orchestrated to win over the masses. King Coriolanus loved being King far too much, so now his successor will appear as if she detests it.

Madge would not put anything past these Yorkists.

She curtsies low before the Queen and awaits a command to rise, smoothing out her expression as best she can. She cannot let them see how she truly feels, she must be locked up tight as a coffer of jewels.

“You may rise,” Queen Katniss tells her and her voice is lifeless, as if she too is keeping all her emotions bound tight and away. Madge stands but keeps her eyes respectfully downcast.

“It is the greatest honour to be in your presence, your Majesty,” she says and there is an angry snort from Gale’s vicinity. Madge does not favor him with a reaction.

“We apologize for keeping you waiting, Lady Madge.”

“You have no need for apologies, your Grace, for I am far below the notice of one with such great matters of state to occupy their mind.”

Gale scoffs and Madge bites down on her tongue

“We have given much thought to your situation,” the Queen begins and Madge bows her head.

“I am more than grateful, my Queen.”

There is a pause and Madge wonders if they had expected hostility from her and are left unsure when confronted with her manners. She catches the hint of a whisper, advice perhaps, from a counselor to their Queen?

“Your father died a traitor, opposing his rightful Queen,” Katniss pronounces and Madge chances a look upwards, sees them all eager for her reaction. Haymitch raises his chin with interest, cold eyes focused on her intently and Gale leans forward, clearly waiting for theatrics. The Queen is distant but even in her, Madge can see a question, a wondering of how she will react.

_Curse you all_

Madge can feel her heart constrict, can feel tears burn in her eyes. The mere mention of her father makes her want to weep and this slander, as if he was some common criminal makes her furious, her tongue clamped between her teeth to keep it silent. She knows what they want, knows what they are waiting for, but Madge will not cry before her conquerors.

“I am most terribly grieved that we found ourselves on opposing sides, your Majesty, but as my father he commanded my loyalties,” she says, each word sliding up her throat like jagged glass. There is another pause, more whispering and Madge feels tension tickle her spine.

“And what did you think of Coriolanus?” the Queen asks, all ears open for Madge’s answer. She almost laughs. Do they really think she would be unable to denounce him? Nothing in her life has ever been easier.

“I hated him. He was a monster, cruel and horrid.”

“You are not sorry that we sit on this throne instead?”

Madge wonders if she is imagining the hint of vulnerability she hears in Katniss’ voice, the tremor that speaks of a young woman not quite comfortable in her new role.

“Not at all, your Majesty. I can think of no greater cause for rejoicing.”

The silence that follows is much too long and makes Madge’s skin itch. She would bet it is intentional, meant to put her on edge and she forces herself to remain calm. She will not bend to their game.

“Many would say we should have your father attainted.”

Madge swallows, her greatest challenge unfolding before her.

“I am sure they would, your Grace.”

“Do you agree?”

She chances another peek and easily ignores the daggers sent her way by Gale’s star bright eyes. She focuses instead on Haymitch, clearly trying to gain her measure. Madge will not disappoint, this she promises.

“I would plead most ardently that you find mercy for a daughter whose only crime was to love her father. I cannot deny that I prayed for his victory, but it was no slight against your Majesty or your cause and I am most grateful that you have freed England from Coriolanus’ wicked grasp. I beg that in your wisdom, you will find pity for a girl whose fault was to obey her father and pray he would return to her.”

Madge allows a break in her voice and knows she has taken a gamble here. She has staked everything on the hope that Katniss did not seek to overthrow the King out of ambition, but out of love for a father struck down in his conquest for the crown. Madge has thrown the dice on this hope and now she prays the Queen will find empathy for someone who has also lost a beloved father. There is a low murmur from Haymitch, a furious hiss from Gale and Madge waits, prays she has judged right about Katniss and her father.

“I think I can find it in me to be merciful,” Queen Katniss whispers, a catch in her voice. Madge feels a flare of triumph, takes note of the lack of royal ‘we’. There is a flurry of whispering then and Madge wonders if she has changed their minds, swayed them from their previous decision. _Please Lord, let me prevail in this._

The whispering turns argumentative, rising slightly in pitch and Madge can just make out Gale spitting out the word _traitor._ Madge keeps her back straight and someone hushes him, Haymitch’s voice a calm murmur. _What are you planning?_ Madge thinks, wishes she could look up and study their faces. Finally, the whispering grinds to a halt, even Gale mumbling assent to whatever it is they’ve decided.

“We are prepared to allow you and your mother both to keep your inheritances,” the Queen begins and Madge would shout for joy, except she knows there must be more, a caveat to accompany so generous a sentence.

“My most gracious thanks, your Majesty.”

“Indeed, but there are conditions to this mercy.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“Your mother, Lady Margaret, will marry our cousin, Lord Haymitch, Earl of Warwick.”

Madge feels shock stab through her like a lance. Her mouth drops open and she cannot help but look up, hot fury burning in her blood. Gale of Salisbury smirks, eyes bright and scalding, Haymitch of Warwick raises an eyebrow and the Queen purses her lips, uncomfortable but firm.

 _How dare they,_ Madge rages _, how dare they how dare they how dare they_

“You will be placed in his guardianship and he will retain full control of your inheritance until you marry,” the Queen continues and Madge wishes she could strike them all down, cut them to pieces by her own hand. They will sell her mother to Haymitch, his reward for loyal service to the crown. He will be richer than he could dream, gifted with a royal dukedom and a wife of royal blood. All that wealth and her mother’s claim will be kept safe in his hands and have they no heart? Her mother is a widow of only weeks and already they would marry her off for their own advantage. And Madge herself will also bolster Haymitch’s standing, all her wealth flowing into his coffers until she marries, _if_ she ever marries. And if she does, it will be to some other Yorkist noble, one who can be trusted and has earned himself a great reward.

Madge could spit at them, but that she imagines, is what they want. They want her anger and though it is nearly impossible, she will not give it to them. _Mark my words Yorkists, this is not over._

“A most generous offer, my Queen, but I will have to bring it before my lady mother.”

Her voice is taut with fury but she holds herself together, even as she strains to scream and shout.

“Of course. Lord Lovell will escort you back to your chambers. We will await your mother’s answer.”

Madge curtsies as low as she can and forces herself to remain composed. They will get no satisfaction from her. She takes Sir Thom’s offered arm and leaves, her dignity held together by strings.

_They won’t get away with this. I won’t let them._

* * *

 

Madge enters their chambers in a tizzy of fury, her mind swimming with hatred.

_You shall pay for this Yorkists, I swear you’ll pay_

Their household watches her with nervous eyes and she knows she should try and reassure them, but her mouth is pooling with venom, kind words drowning. She strides to her mother’s door instead, slamming it behind her with far more force than necessary. _Greedy, heartless scum!_

“What happened?”

Madge startles and her mother is awake, propped up on pillows. Her skin is a waxy yellow, stretched over jutting bones and Madge feels her stomach sink. There is a tray of untouched food beside her and a smell of illness and rot lingering in the room. Madge walks over to the tray and picks up a spoonful of broth.

“You must eat,” she murmurs and her mother shakes her head, takes Madge’s hand with her own fragile one. Madge looks down at it and wonders what she is meant to say, how she can tell her mother of her fate.

“Tell me what happened, Madge.”

There is a strange strength in her mother’s voice, a steel rarely used and Madge knows she cannot protect her from everything.

“They will allow us to keep our inheritance, if you marry the Queen’s widower cousin, Haymitch of Warwick.”

Madge had not meant to sound so bitter, but it wells up inside her, poisons each of her words.

“I’ll do it,” her mother agrees immediately and Madge pulls away as if she’s been burned.

“What?”

“I’ll marry him.”

Madge shakes her head in disbelief. Is this a nightmare? Is she hallucinating?

“How can you-you _cannot_ -I don’t even- _why_?”

Her mother looks at her with pity in her eyes and Madge bristles.

“We have no choice, my love.”

“They will take my inheritance too,” Madge hurls at her, words biting, “allow Haymitch to keep it until I marry, but I doubt he’ll allow me to! I’m sure he’ll pack me off to a convent so he can have it all himself!”

She is breathing too hard and her mother reaches for her but Madge pulls away, light headed and hysterical.

“How can you so easily agree to marry the enemy? A man who helped send your husband to his grave? Do you not care at all for the man you are prepared to abandon?”

Madge regrets it the instant it leaves her lips and her mother’s expression turns stormy and grave.

“I am doing this for you and only for you. If we do not agree to their terms, the best we can hope for is a life of imprisonment. If I had only myself to think of, I would gladly take it, would rather lose my freedom than betray your father’s memory. I am your mother Madge, and this is how I can keep you safe. If I marry Lord Haymitch, you will have your inheritance, you will not be branded a traitor’s daughter. We will be safe, protected by the Queen’s closest advisor. If we can woo him, charm him, you can live a comfortable life and perhaps even chose your own husband. This is our one chance Madge and if you care so much for your father, think about what he would want. Would he want us to honour him by throwing away our lives?”

Madge is a volatile mix of repentance and frustration, everything inside of her spinning and twirling in chaos.

“No,” she admits and her mother nods, anger draining out of her. She reaches again for Madge’s hand and this time, she allows her to take it.

“I know this isn’t ideal, sweetheart, but this is our only chance. Your father would understand. All we both want, have ever wanted, is for you to have a long, happy life.”

Madge does not say anything, isn’t sure she could.

_How can I ever be happy here, trapped in this Yorkist prison?_

(and she doesn’t mean Westminster)

(she means England, all of England)

* * *

 

When the servants bring supper, Madge looks at them coldly.

“I will need more water for the tub,” she commands and there is no gentleness in her now. They do not dare refuse.

Madge watches them leave, hands knotted tightly in her lap. She and her mother will both look their best when Sir Thom comes to fetch their answer.

* * *

 

She helps her mother bathe the next morning and she is so thin, so painfully, horrifically thin Madge cannot believe she is even real. She is brittle skin over frail bones and Madge is certain even a stiff wind would shatter her. They dress her in her very best gown, silver and gold and shimmery with gemstones. They bind her hair underneath a great tall hennin, delicately embroidered lace veils hanging about her face from wire frames. She wears all her jewels and Madge too puts on her grandest attire, that rich purple houppelande she’d rejected when she’d gone to meet the Queen. But now she chooses it, drapes herself in jewels and finery.

Yesterday she had wanted them to underestimate her. Today she is making a statement.

Sir Thom does not come with the servants that bring their first meal of the day and her mother forces herself to eat, brings a little colour back into her cheeks. Madge finds her own appetite somewhat lacking. She understands her mother’s reasons, knows they must focus on surviving in this new England, but still, Madge is livid as she has never been. When Sir Thom does arrive, she cannot contain her look of utter fury and he actually stumbles back a step when he looks at her.

(every time he sees her she is someone new)

(he’s starting to be concerned)

Her mother is far more composed, inclining her head in Sir Thom’s direction.

“Good day sir, have you come for my answer?’

He nods, wary eyes still on Madge.

“Yes, my lady. The Queen is eager to hear it.”

“And I will be happy to enlighten her.”

Sir Thom whirls around to look at her mother, face stricken. He fidgets uncomfortably.

“Her Majesty had hoped I would deliver it,” he says and her mother narrows her eyes.

“On a matter of such importance as this, would it not be more prudent for me to tell her myself? I would hate for anything to go awry in delivery and jeopardize the future of my daughter and I. I would feel far more secure were I to speak the words to her myself.”

Sir Thom frowns and looks around helplessly. When no aid is forthcoming, he nods, shoulders slumping. He holds out his arm.

“As you wish, my lady, Allow me to escort you.”

Her mother stands and there is one moment when she sways unsteadily, Thom and Madge both watching her with concerned eyes. Margaret recovers and takes Thom’s offered arm, Madge trailing after them as they head out into the hall. There are various people milling about and they all stare as their little group passes, wide eyes taking in the splendor of their attire. _Look your fill,_ Madge thinks venomously _, observe what remains of the once great House of Lancaster._

They are led to the Queen’s audience chamber and Madge ignores the tightening in all her limbs. Sir Thom informs a herald of their arrival and they wait to be announced, a sour taste pooling beneath Madge’s tongue. _I hate you. I hate you all._

The doors swing open and they make their entrance, Madge trying and failing to school her features into an impassive mask. Unlike last time, the hall is filled up with all sorts of people. They’ve clearly interrupted some kind of gathering. The Queen looks stiff in an emerald green gown, her fingers drumming on the arm of her throne. Gale of Salisbury hovers beside her, still bent over as if he’d been in the process of whispering in her ear. He notices them and straightens with a scowl.

“Lady Margaret, Lady Madge,” a gruff voice greets them and Madge looks over to see Lord Haymitch emerging from the crowd. She and her mother drop into curtsies, the whole room hushing.

“Stand, please,” Katniss says, sounding weary. They do so, eyes still downturned. Madge knots her fingers in her gown, smoke and fire crowding in her lungs.

“Have you come to give me your answer?” the Queen continues, a barely discernible strain colouring her voice.

“Indeed I have, your Majesty. I most graciously accept your generous offer. It would be an honour to marry Lord Haymitch.”

Madge feels like a spike has been driven straight through her heart. _Forgive us Father._

“A toast for this most momentous occasion!” Lord Haymitch calls, clapping his hands. Severs hurry into the hall with goblets and jugs of wine, passing them around as quickly as they can. Madge takes hers with tense fingers.

“To my betrothed, the illustrious Lady Margaret!” Lord Haymitch says, lifting his glass.

“Lady Margaret!” the room calls and everyone takes a deep gulp of wine. Madge can feel it burning all the way down her throat. The hall is filled with smiling faces but Madge barely registers any of them. Only three bear any importance and they brand themselves into her memory.

Lord Haymitch is all bland pleasantry, but his eyes are cool as he observes her and her mother over the rim of his cup. Queen Katniss does not smile, looks somewhat morose, teeth biting into her lip. Gale of Salisbury does not even bother to drink, just stands there with a frown. Madge meets each of their eyes in turn.

_This is not over._

_This is only just beginning._

* * *

 

After the toast, Lord Haymitch decides to introduce them to his family.

He leads her mother around by the arm and Madge follows behind, her mouth twisted up in her best charade of happiness.

“My son Marvel, Earl of Northumberland,” Haymitch introduces and Madge takes a look at her future step-brother. He is quite tall, his hair a muddy brown and his eyes a glittering, vibrant green. He is somewhat skinny, dressed in lavish splendor and there is a fierceness in his grin that makes her skin twitch. He bends over and kisses her mother’s hand, his eyes bright like the emeralds sewn into his doublet.

“A great honour, my lady,” he greets and releases her mother’s hand, gaze swinging over to Madge. She curtsies.

“And my new sister! It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, my lord.”

He smiles again, satisfied and glowing. Madge hopes her answering one is at least somewhat sincere. Haymitch goes to lead her mother to the next relative and Marvel extends his arm to Madge. She takes it and he wraps his fingers around her hand, guiding her somewhat forcefully, as if he doesn’t trust her to follow. His grip is slightly uncomfortable but Madge doesn’t squirm, knows appearance is everything. They stop before an imposing woman in an elaborate butterfly hennin and a black fur lined gown and she is pale with icy blue eyes, though there is something about her face that reminds Madge of Katniss.

“My lady aunt, Elizabeth, Duchess of York,” Haymitch says and of course, this is the Queen’s mother. She looks to be about Haymitch’s age, the only lines on her face in the corners of her mouth. She does not smile as they curtsy, her own head dipping just slightly in acknowledgement.

(clearly, she is no friend of theirs)

“And of course, my cousin, the Queen’s sister, Lady Primrose.”

Hovering at the Duchess’ shoulder is a girl perhaps a year younger than Madge, blue eyes bright with excitement. They exchange curtsies and Madge is so tired of this, wishes she could just go up to the front of the room and do one blanket curtsy to cover the rest of the day. Lady Primrose looks more like her mother than her sister, with pale eyes and hair. She rocks on her heels, face awash with wonder and Madge feels the anger in her soften just a bit.

“Lady Margaret, it has been far too long,” comes a voice to their left and Madge turns to see a woman a few years older than Haymitch coming towards them. He smiles.

“My aunt, Lady Hazelle, Dowager Countess of Salisbury.”

_Gale’s mother._

She has a kindly face, her son’s silvery eyes and a smile that could put anyone at ease.

(well, anyone but Madge)

“Indeed it has, Lady Salisbury,” her mother returns and Hazelle gestures for the two young boys behind her to step forward.

“My younger sons, Rory and Vick,” she introduces and Vick is perhaps ten, hiding shyly behind his mother’s skirts. Rory might be twelve and bows somewhat disinterestedly in their direction. Hazelle clears her throat and Rory barely hides a grimace.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says stiffly, gingerly takes Madge’s hand and barely kisses it. He drops it quickly and Primrose giggles, Rory shooting her a scowl. Madge would normally be offended, but she gets the impression this display has less to do with her and more to do with his twelve year old feelings towards girls in general. Hazelle sends Rory a stern look he determinedly ignores and Madge feels a loosening of her knot of tension. Whatever crimes the Yorkists have committed, these children share none of the blame.

“You have a daughter as well, if I remember right,” her mother comments and Hazelle nods.

“Yes, my Posy. We thought her too young to attend today, she is but five.”

Her mother and Hazelle slide into discussion and Madge notices someone else approaching them from the corner of her eye. It is Gale, the eldest of the Salisbury children and Marvel squeezes her arm tightly.

“Be wary of my dear cousin, he has been somewhat cross ever since his father’s death,” he murmurs in her ear, a thread of almost laughter caught in his words. Madge thinks that might be an understatement.

(funny, isn’t it? that they have suffered much the same and yet he can find no sympathy for her?)

Gale stops before them, his expression one of barely concealed displeasure. She curtsies and he bows stiffly, eyes simmering with loathing.

“Lady Madge,” he greets, her name sounding like a curse. He does not try and kiss her hand.

“Lord Salisbury,” Madge returns, as sweetly as she’s able. She smiles softly, eyes demurely turned away and he frowns, teeth clamped together in his bristling hatred.

 _Let him_ , she thinks viciously, _let him be rude and cruel and mean, let him make a spectacle of himself in his rage, let him look the disrespectful fool._ She will be kind and charming, docile and polite. She cannot spit in his face or claw out his eyes, so she will defeat him with the manners her mother has spent years teaching her to hone.

“I saw your banner,” he reports, venom wrapping around each of his words. Madge allows her smile to grow.

“I stitched it myself,” she says and he snorts, “What did you think of it?”

His eyes blaze then and if Madge wasn’t boiling over with her own hatred, she thinks she might wilt under the potent anger so clearly visible in him.

“I had it burned.”

Madge feels a stab of pain in her heart as she imagines it, that banner she had slaved over to welcome her father home smoldering into ashes. Lady Hazelle gasps.

“ _Gale_ ,” she reprimands, voice outraged. Gale turns away from his mother’s disapproval and Madge feels a spark of victory ignite in her gut. He turns back and won’t meet her eyes, muscles tense.

“I am sorry, Lady Madge, that was rude of me.”

She smiles.

“It’s alright, I forgive you.”

He meets her eyes and she wonders if he can read the triumph in her expression.

_You may have deposed a king, Gale of Salisbury, but you shall never defeat me._

* * *

 

Her mother returns to bed but Madge lingers, hostile eyes stuck to Lord Haymitch. Marvel chatters beside her but she is only half listening, thoughts consumed by this man who will marry her mother.

“Earl of Northumberland comes from my mother’s side of the family,” he tells her and she nods absently. “My grandfather, Henry Percy, had no sons, so the title and estate would have passed to my mother, and thus my father would have held it in her name. But she died years ago, so now that my grandfather has died, it’s mine.”

“Hmm,” she comments and he nods.

“The Percys of Northumberland have long been the most powerful magnates in the north and I have inherited it all. In fact, the Queen has even named me Warden of the North. And when my father dies, I shall inherit everything from him, making me one of the richest men in all of England.”

“Oh my.”

“Yes, it is quite impressive,” he agrees and then his eyes smooth over her, making her skin prickle.

“But you too are set to be very rich, aren’t you my sweet sister?”

“I suppose,” she replies, hates that it comes out breathy instead of steady.

“All that Bedford wealth, not to mention you will receive your mother’s royal dukedom of Clarence unless she bears my father a son.”

_Thankfully, there is little chance of that._

“Yes,” he says, nodding thoughtfully, “whoever is so fortunate as to marry you will eclipse all the other noblemen in England. You are easily the richest heiress in the kingdom, I suspect there will be quite a war over your hand.”

Madge doesn’t answer, feels distinctly uncomfortable. And then, by some unimaginable twist of fate, Gale of Salisbury comes to her rescue.

“Marvel! Come here a minute, will you?” he calls from his permanent position by the Queen’s side. There is a strangely unreadable expression on his face and she is thankful for whatever it is he wishes to discuss with Marvel.

“Forgive me, but duty calls,” Marvel tells her, voice flavored with self-importance. Madge manages a smile.

“Of course,” she agrees and he kisses her hand, lips lingering against her skin. She watches him go and her eyes meet Gale’s across the room, his expression still impossible to read. She lifts her skirts and dips her head like a puppet on strings and Gale turns away quickly, focusing back on Katniss. Madge turns away as well, eyes finding Haymitch making his way out of the hall. Her stomach tightens and she shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t, but she follows after him anyway. Her footsteps echo in the empty hallway and he stops, turning to face her.

“Lady Madge,” he acknowledges, voice courteous

“You are going to marry my mother,” she says without preamble and he is tactful enough to ignore the accusation in her words.

“Yes. It is a good marriage,” he says, sounds as if he’s repeated it a hundred times before. “It will do us both well.”

Madge knows she shouldn’t say a word, should leave it be but she cannot, hate like a disease rooting around inside her.

“My mother cannot have children,” she tells him boldly, stepping wildly out of line.

Haymitch blinks at her in surprise but Madge does not back down, her fingers tightening in the folds of her dress.

“I have heard rumors of that,” he says eventually, shrewd eyes raking over her. Madge bristles.

“I already have a son and heir, I need no others,” he continues and Madge feels a little twinge of relief. It fades though as Haymitch does not stop observing her, narrowed gaze taking her in.

“Am I not to your liking, sir?” she asks, anger leaking into her voice. His eyebrows rise and he could beat her for her insolence, but she is beginning to think she doesn’t care.

“It is good of you, to look after your mother,” he says finally and Madge feels something hot licking her insides.

“Someone has to,” she replies coldly and he nods slowly. He looks at her again and his silence is too heavy, makes her feel like invisible hands are pushing her down. He nods again.

“Your father was a good man,” he admits and Madge feels like he’s cleaved her open and plucked her heart from her chest.

“I know,” she whispers, tears stinging her eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees, “I suppose you do.”  He looks away from her then, eyes focused somewhere far away.

“I know what it’s like to lose a spouse you love,” he murmurs, voice so quiet Madge has to strain to hear it. He clears his throat.

“On my honour I swear no harm will come to you or your mother.”

Madge looks at this man, an enemy who helped steal her father away from her and cannot believe him.

How could she, when all the world has ever given her, is harm?

* * *

 

 _Promises,_ Madge decides that night in bed _, are made to be broken._

* * *

 

No longer prisoners but soon to be in-laws of the Queen, they are shepherded into brand new chambers with a suite each for Madge and her mother. The rooms are sumptuous, carefully made up for luxurious comfort. Madge supposes she is meant to be grateful, but she isn’t, can’t muster anything but a steady burn of anger. The room smells of fresh paint and Madge can see where they’ve covered up the red roses, crowned wolves and portraits of King Coriolanus on the walls and ceilings. She wonders if they mean to erase him from memory, to blot him out of history forever.

She unpacks her meager belongings and bites down on the question hovering on the tip of her tongue. _Gale burnt my banner, but what of Bedford Castle? Does anything remain? Have you left me anything or destroyed it all?_

(if she were a gambler, she would bet on the latter)

Of course, even Yorkist generosity comes at a price. Though they have been given new lodgings and the freedom to move about Westminster, everyone they’d brought with them, from Sir Thomas, Sir George and Sir Richard to her mother’s ladies, are to be dismissed. They are to pack their things and go, to be replaced by people of Lord Haymitch’s choosing. Her mother will of course be allowed to provide them with references, but they cannot stay.

Lord Haymitch rattles off some drivel about unity and fresh starts but Madge is no fool. They are adrift in a sea of enemies and their jailers are not about to allow them any allies. They cannot be allowed any chance of rebellion, of attempting to promote Lancastrian causes. They will be surrounded by people loyal to York, every single one carefully selected to suppress any Lancastrian sympathy.

(Madge had not thought it possible to hate the Yorkists anymore than she already did)

(she was wrong)

Madge sobs with frustration into her pillow at night but every morning she is cheerful and pleasant, knows she cannot allow even a hint of weakness. She is still a prisoner, this time in a gilded cage, locked up just as tight as she was before.

 _Woo them, charm them_ her mother had said.

 _I will,_ she vows, _I will make them love me until it destroys them_

* * *

 

As it turns out, her mother’s new ladies are at least useful in that they know much of what has been going around at court and are more than happy to gossip all the details to Madge.

The Queen has apparently been busy rewarding her supporters, her two cousins chief among them. Lord Haymitch has been named Captain of Calais (the Crown’s last territory in France) as well as Lord High Admiral. He has been made Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster, whose wealth used to belong to King Coriolanus, not to mention he has been gifted lands and income once belonging to noble men who have now been attainted. Gale of Salisbury has been named Lord High Constable of England, put in charge of the realm’s safety and defense from threats within and without. He too has been made rich off other men’s lands, their wealth flowing into his coffers. He has also been made a Knight of the Garter, the most prestigious order in the kingdom. Lord Haymitch had already been invested as one by King Coriolanus, otherwise, Madge is sure he too would have been promoted.

Marvel, Earl of Northumberland, has likewise been rewarded, as a Knight of the Garter and recipient of lands and castles that should not belong to him. William Herbert has been made Earl of Pembroke, the title stolen from Boggs, half brother to the deposed King. He, like the rest of the royal family, is exiled to Scotland, though the Queen’s agents are furious in negotiations with the Scottish Queen Regent to have them returned. They are not alone, plenty of loyal Lancastrians having followed them to exile, including the once Duke of Somerset, Brutus, and the no-longer-Earls John of Oxford and Finnick of Richmond.

(though she wonders if they are all truly loyal to the cause, or bound by other reasons, much like Madge herself)

(and what of Anne? With her father in exile, what has become of her?)

Plenty of others have been rewarded and punished in turn, the lines of enmity in England running deep. The country is not healing from its vicious war, instead it seems to be tearing further apart. Lancastrians in Scotland bray for blood and Yorkists grow fat off their spoils, desperate to crush any remaining resistance.

The war may have been won, but it is far from done.

* * *

 

The wedding won’t be happening for some time yet, as her mother and Haymitch are third cousins and will require a dispensation from the Pope. In the meantime, Madge is now free to go wherever she likes in Westminster, though she cannot leave the palace grounds. Haymitch says something about safety, but Madge doesn’t listen, is well aware that it’s all lies. She can’t go out alone either, must always be accompanied by one of her mother’s new ladies. A Yorkist spy, in other words. Madge should care, but really, she’s just thrilled to be able to move around, not kept penned inside her chambers.

She spends most of her days wandering through the halls and grounds, finally breathes in fresh air after over a month in captivity. Madge rarely encounters anyone high up in the Yorkist hierarchy during her outings, they are far too busy in constant conference with Her Majesty. This suits Madge just fine, lets her feel a bit freer even though she knows she isn’t. She tries to guess what it is they’re all discussing all day, every day and whatever it is, she probably wouldn’t like it. It could be things entirely benign, but her imagination is wild, can think only of blood and punishment.

She keeps her ears open as she walks, eager for any whisper, rumor or shred of news. Royal Palaces have always been havens of gossip and Madge listens to it all, desperate for something, though she’s not sure exactly what. A weakness she can use? Knowledge of what’s in store for England? Insight into these people she has sworn to charm? Regardless, she lets each of their words tickle her ears and sink into her brain, kept safe for when they might be useful.

She’s not sure what she’s waiting for, but when it comes, she’ll be ready.

* * *

 

Her soon-to-be-step-father commissions new gowns for both of them and Madge cannot help but wonder whose money is paying for them. His? Or hers, kept safe with him?

“Be gracious in your thanks,” her mother whispers and Madge smiles with all her charm as she stands for fittings.

“They’re coming along nicely,” Lord Haymitch comments and Madge beams in gratitude.

“I am ever so thankful for them,” she tells him and his eyes narrow. She does not think he believes her but he merely nods and leaves. She watches him go and _it may not be as easy to woo him as mother had hoped._

It doesn’t matter. Madge will find a way.

(she has to)

* * *

 

Madge spends many a moment enjoying Westminster’s gardens, even if they are somewhat lacking. They’re overgrown, flowers buried beneath green vines and moss, but she understands. King Coriolanus clearly had more important things to focus on than his gardens when he’d last been in London and the Yorkists have been far too busy taking up the reins of government to focus much on weeding. 

Still, it is possible to see its former beauty, pretty colours peeking out between the yellow-green of weeds, flowers that once took center stage. She bends down to try and free some violets from the choking overgrowth and looks up at the sound of voices. She freezes, still crouched down, at the sight of Gale, gesturing and pointing. He’s looking around, eyes narrowed and a clerk follows behind him taking notes. Madge squeezes a vine between her fingers and Gale and his clerk are almost out of sight, but then he stops abruptly, staring down at a wild bush of red roses. He frowns deeply, disgust in his eyes and Madge supposes red roses make him just as sick as white roses do her. Her fingers slip, a thorn drawing blood and she gasps. Gale looks over suddenly, his gaze meeting hers.

His eyes are hot, his face stern and Madge knows she should smile, attempt to look friendly, but all she can do is stare, judgment bubbling all over her face. He holds her eyes for a long moment and then marches off, the bush left undisturbed. Madge glares at his back until he is out of sight and then looks down at her stinging fingers.

The blood has stained her gown, turning the gold roses red.

How appropriate.

* * *

 

There is an air of festivity in London, everyone filled to the brim with excitement for Queen Katniss’ coronation.

Madge, unsurprisingly, does not share their enthusiasm. She behaves herself though, smiles and feigns interest in every plan and detail. She discusses gowns and hairstyles with various ladies but her eyes follow Gale of Salisbury as he skulks about the palace, always right in the thick of every preparation. Whispers chase after him as he goes, rumors snapping at his heels. Hushed voices say he is ambitious, cold, cruel. Others that he is the most valiant of knights, loyal and brave and true. They talk of his heroic acts in the war, how he fought with courage, commanded troops with devastating skill, risked his life to see Katniss triumph. They murmur of how he showed his enemies no mercy, how his skin drips with the blood of Lancaster. Some say he is using Katniss for advancement, others that he loves her with all his heart.

(some even go so far as to say they are already lovers)

Truth and fiction blend to create the contradictory picture of Lord Gale, Earl of Salisbury, hero and villain. Madge cannot be bothered to pick apart these stories, to discover just who Gale is under all the fanciful tales. It does not truly matter, for brutal or kind, noble or selfish, he is certainly unforgiving. He is the Queen’s most trusted man and gaining his confidence would open more doors than Madge can count, but it would be pointless to try. She will continue to be charming of course, to smile but she has little hope of winning his favor. He is young, tempestuous and anger seems to the fuel that keeps him running.

(Madge would never admit it, but maybe they aren’t so different after all)

* * *

 

Madge takes all her meals with her mother, the two of them alone in her bedchamber. No one, not even Haymitch, bothers to ask them to come down and join their soon to be in-laws for supper, and Madge is glad of it. She is tired of all the pretending, always smiling when all she wants to do is scream. The Yorkists do not want her there and she does not want them here, these moments without them the closest she’ll ever get to peace.

Her mother actually eats, even though she clearly has no appetite, takes each bite like she’s chewing sand. Madge squeezes her hand and picks at her own food, her stomach shriveled up and small. If she were capable of laughing, she might think it was funny that this marriage neither of them wants is what’s forcing her mother to regain her health. Instead, it just makes her angrier, eating at her with vicious teeth.

(Madge remembers Gale, angry eyes, angry mouth and curses herself)

(they are nothing alike, nothing at all)

Madge can’t help but see her life stretching out before her and she stabs at her dinner, wondering if survival is even worth it. Until the day she dies, she will be tethered unwillingly to her Yorkist masters but then, spitefully, she thinks they might prefer it if she gave up or died, could then do whatever they wanted with her inheritance without any complaints. She is young and petty and thinks maybe she’ll live forever just to make things more difficult for them.

 _Hate is a disease_ her mother had once told her before bed and Madge doesn’t quite care. She would much rather rebel with sickness than surrender with perfect health. And suddenly she does find her appetite, is determined to maintain her physical wellness. She will not die until she is grey and wrinkled, will be a thorn in the collective Yorkist side forever and ever and ever.

_Love me, hate me, you will never be rid of me_

* * *

 

As the coronation draws nearer, even the youngest members of Katniss’ family are gifted with greatness.

As is tradition, the Queen’s coronation will be complemented with new inductions into the Knights of the Bath. Rory and Vick of Salisbury are two of the chosen, just twelve and ten but still showered with honour.

The ceremony of knighthood is long and complicated, involving baths and a night spent in vigil at the chapel, but Madge is only called to witness the final portion. She wears a new blue damask gown from Haymitch and stands with her mother, Duchess Elizabeth, Lady Hazelle and the very young Posy of Salisbury, who has to be shushed repeatedly to stop her cheering excitedly for her brothers.

Both boys, as well as the three other recipients, are led before the Queen and they kneel before her. As is custom, she instructs two senior knights to buckle spurs to each of the knight-elects’ boots. Madge is not entirely sure of the symbolism behind this particular act, but she pretends to understand, lest anyone think her stupid. The Queen then fastens a belt around each of their waists and strikes them on the shoulders with her sword. Both Salisbury boys are solemn at their turn and Gale beams as he watches them, looking strangely young and human. Madge could almost call him handsome.

_Five new knights, five more Yorkists graciously rewarded._

_And so our divisions cut ever deeper._

* * *

 

The day of the great coronation, Madge is laced into one of Haymitch’s new gowns, this one of white silk. Gold roses are embroidered at the cuffs, collar and hem while pearls are sewn into the skirt and bodice. Pearls and rubies hang from her neck and decorate her hair, left free and unbound for the ceremony. She has dangling earrings of gold and spinels and a red kirtle for a bold pop of colour. She looks the perfect dutiful cousin and thanks her maids with a smile before inhaling deeply to steady herself.

She has a part to play today and she will do it magnificently.

* * *

 

As always, the coronation starts with a magnificent procession from the Tower of London to Westminster, people from far and wide clogging up the streets as they cheer. The noise is deafening, between screaming voices, blaring horns and the shouted performances lining the streets. Rose petals and confetti rain down from windows, banners and streamers blowing in the early May breeze.

Madge rides in a litter with her mother, Duchess Elizabeth, Lady Hazelle and Lady Primrose, who hangs out the side with overflowing excitement. Katniss, Haymitch and Gale ride before them on horses, out where all of London can see them. People wave hands, handkerchiefs and ribbons, throw flowers and blow kisses as they pass, the three royal cousins smiling down at their subjects. Haymitch looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days, his smile tight in the corner but overjoyed citizens don’t seem to notice, too busy screeching in appreciation of Coriolanus’ overthrow. Gale looks mildly uncomfortable with so much attention, posture somewhat stiff and smile fluttering on his lips. Women call his name, shout others things that make him grin in shock and Duchess Elizabeth scowls, Hazelle covering a blushing Primrose’s ears. Katniss rides between them both and Madge never sees her face, but her limbs look heavy as she raises them to wave at the adoring masses, her back painfully straight.

Westminster looms before them, the ceremony crawling closer and Madge is about to witness history. No Queen has ever ruled this kingdom, no woman has ever worn the crown by her own right.

Katniss of York has certainly changed all that, has changed England.

(though it remains to be seen if it’s for better or for worse)

* * *

 

There are a great many tasks to be performed at a coronation and Madge has been chosen for a very special one. While Haymitch acts as Lord High Steward for the occasion, entrusted with the duty of bearing St Edward’s crown and Gale performs as Lord High Constable and bears the Sword of State and Marvel the Orb, Madge, her mother, Lady Primrose, Lady Hazelle and Duchess Elizabeth will be Katniss’ train bearers, marking them as the greatest ladies in the land. Most would see this as a unbelievable honour and would happily climb over Madge to get it, but she knows this is no gift. The most important people in all of England will witness this coronation and they will see Madge and her mother, the last scions of Lancastrian blood in England, carrying the Yorkists Queen’s train. Madge is being used as a political tool, a visual cue that Lancastrian resistance is dead.

Madge knows all this and still performs her duty admirably, will be appropriately solemn and reverent throughout. Katniss is pale, a quiver visible in her chin but she squares her shoulders when their moment comes, walks up the aisle of Westminster with perfect poise and dignity. Madge inhales one last time and follows after, holding Katniss’ train with steady hands.

 _Traitor!_ she can imagine King Coriolanus hissing in her ear. Her cheek throbs suddenly, a reminder of Prince Cato’s wrath but she ignores them both. If the King had not first betrayed all of England, she would not be here and York would merely be a dukedom with royal blood rather than a ruling house. She reminds herself of that with each step, but she cannot help but wonder what will happen if the King ever does reclaim his crown.

_I am a Lancaster by blood, but would their victory doom me?_

_Am I to be punished by the Yorkists for my birth and then the Lancastrians for doing what I could to survive?_

_Is there no way for me to win? Am I always to lose?_

The assembly sings a hymn, voices rising together and Madge stomps down on the bleak hopelessness she feels creeping in her heart.

_I am a daughter of dukes, a child of royal Lancaster._

_We’ll find a way to make it through this._

_(we have to)_

* * *

 

The ceremony is long and intricate, but finally, the most significant moment of all arrives, the whole world silent as the Archbishop places the crown on Katniss’ head, the whole abbey holding its breath. Katniss stares straight ahead without blinking, eyes a little too wide and Madge looks at her, the first queen regnant of England and feels her stomach tie itself in knots.

“God save the Queen!” the people around her cheer and Madge’s tongue feels like lead, the words too heavy to speak.

“God save the Queen!” they all call again, Gale’s voice sticking out loud and proud.

“God save the Queen!” everyone chants for the third and final time, Katniss’ eyes meeting Madge’s for one terrifying second. The world seems to freeze for that single moment and Madge sees fear in Katniss’ face, feels her own crashing around inside her. Trumpets start to blare, church bells ring out all across England and Katniss is still staring at her, face pale when Madge finally finds her voice.

“God save the Queen,” she whispers.

_And us. God save us from the Queen. And the King._

_God save us._

* * *

 

As is tradition, there is a great banquet in Westminster Palace to celebrate their new sovereign.

Madge spends most of it in a daze, heart hammering. Possibilities keep building behind her eyes, horror stories of King Coriolanus chopping off her head, or having her hung, drawn and quartered. Is that not the punishment for traitors? He would never forgive her for participating in Katniss’ coronation, would never understand that she had no choice. She remembers being nine years old, remembers watching the public executions. If the King ever returns to England, that could very well be her.

_No matter who sits on the throne, I am ruined_

Madge feels panic beating in her chest, feels like she might faint. _What am I supposed to do? King Coriolanus does not forgive. But Katniss of York has no love for me, could turn on me at any moment. How can I charm these monsters? How do I win over people who want nothing more than to steal my inheritance? They’ll lock me away, send me to a convent, marry me off to someone who’ll break me until I learn never to resist again._

_What do I do?_

“Are you alright?” someone asks her and she doesn’t answer, hands pressed to her heart. The world seems to be blurring around the edges, her chest tightening painfully.

“I can’t…I can’t…” she tries to say but her throat feels swollen, breath struggling to leave her lungs. She gasps, skin feeling too hot.

_The Yorkists will kill me. King Coriolanus will kill me._

“My lady?”

_I don’t want to die._

Her chest hurts, she can’t breathe and the world goes bright white and then black, disappears and swallows her in darkness and Madge is almost glad of the release.

“My lady! Somebody help! _Help!_ ”

* * *

 

_She is covered in blood, King Coriolanus is laughing and Katniss of York is chasing her with an axe, face painted red._

_Someone is screaming, the sky is spinning and she feels sick, wants to vomit and collapse._

_Everything is loud, she has never felt so scared, she’s about to die, she can’t breathe, can’t think-_

“I’ve got her.”

A voice, a male voice, cuts through the chaos in her head and she blinks, world swimming before her. She is staring at the ceiling, skull aching.

“I’ll take her to her chambers. Someone fetch the physician.”

That voice again and she almost recognizes it, her ears ringing and head stuffed with cotton. She is still trying to get her bearings when suddenly she is flying, the change of altitude making her stomach toss. It takes her a moment, mind sluggish, but she realizes she is not flying but being carried. She still feels too hot and her face is pressed to someone’s doublet, the fabric soft and velvet.

 _I must have passed out,_ she realizes, _must have been lying on the floor_. Someone is holding her in their arms, cradling her against their chest. She tries to hold onto her thoughts but her head still hurts and her eyes start to flutter closed. She rubs her cheek on the smooth material of his shirt, does not register words being spoken above her.

 _It’s alright,_ she thinks _, I’m safe now_

* * *

 

Madge wakes again as she is being put down, laid gently in her bed.

Blurry people mill around her and warm hands smooth the hair from her face. She can barely keep her eyes open, cannot focus on any faces.

“Will she be alright?”

_Mother…?_

She never hears the answer, the world going dark around her yet again.

* * *

 

The sun is too bright.

Madge’s eyes open and she is nearly blinded, noonday light making her wince. Her mouth feels dry, her temples throb and hazy memories trickle back to her. _I passed out. Right there, in full view of the entire court, I fainted._

“Madge! Oh, sweetheart, you’re awake!”

She blinks and her mother is there, squeezing her hand tightly.

“I’m sorry…I worried you,” Madge mumbles, tongue feeling leathery. Her mother shakes her head.

“I’m just glad you’re alright. The physician said you were overexcited.”

_Or over-panicked._

Madge nods and struggles to sit up while her mother helpfully fetches her some water. _I can’t let that happen again. The Yorkists cannot see me being so weak, never again._ _I have to get a hold of myself. Fear can’t be allowed to beat me._

(if only it were as easy as all that)

* * *

 

With the physician’s blessing, Madge takes some fresh air with a walk in the garden.

Someone has begun to tame it, pruning and weeding at the violent overgrowth. White roses dominate the space, but there are other flowers too, adding vibrant splashes of colour amidst the green. Madge sits on a stone bench and fiddles with some daisies, still mulling over her humiliation.

No one is likely to forget her collapsing at the Queen’s coronation banquet, certainly not any time soon. What whispers must be filling the halls, what laughter at her expense. Any strength she has managed to project has been stripped away, leaving her looking frail and pathetic in all Yorkist eyes. _What a disaster._

“I see you’re feeling better, Lady Madge.”

Madge stiffens, something cold sliding down her spine. She recognizes the voice, the same one that had carried her to her room.

_Gale._

She turns and he is standing behind her, face his usual rigid mask. She forces a smile.

“Yes, Lord Salisbury, I am feeling much improved.”

Madge stares at his chest, feeling somewhat sick. Not only did she expose her weakness for everyone to see, but Gale of Salisbury was the key witness, transporting her limp body up to bed. Her greatest critic saw her at her lowest and she could cry.

_What cruel hand spins this wheel of fortune?_

“I’m glad,” he says and she does not believe a word of it. They stand there, silence tense and she does not know what to do, how she is meant to salvage this situation. If he’d thought of her poorly before, she cannot imagine what he thinks of her now.

“My sister wanted me to give this to you,” he says, half turned away from her, eyes focused on a far wall. She looks down at his hand and her eyes stretch wide in surprise. He holds out a mismatched bouquet tied together with hair ribbons and Madge takes it tentatively, too shocked to speak.

“Posy thought these might make you feel better, since you’re always out here, with the flowers.”

Madge’s heart lurches in her chest and she squeezes the stems.

“Thank you.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” he says immediately, nearly cutting her off.

“Then thank your sister for me.”

He nods jerkily and a sudden thought occurs to her.

“Was it you, you had the gardens…fixed?”

He turns fully away from her, so she is staring at his back.

“My sister likes gardens.”

He walks away without another word and Madge watches him go, fingers twining in little Posy’s hair ribbons.

_What game are you playing fortune?_

* * *

 

The news Madge has been dreading arrives a week and a half later, Marvel delivering it over supper. He leans in close, fingers stroking her elbow.

“We have finally received the Pope’s dispensation, our parents will soon be married.”

Madge feels the floor drop out beneath her and looks at Marvel, feeling none of the satisfaction she can see in his grin. Just beyond Marvel, she can see Gale watching her and she wants to scream. _Do you know what he’s telling me? Do you want me to flood the room with tears, collapse in hysterics?_ She does neither of those things, but holds his gaze instead and he turns away, jerking his head around to Katniss beside him.

Madge almost laughs. Or maybe it is tears she can feel, the future rushing towards her and swallowing her whole.

_Lord have mercy on us both and deliver us from harm. Please, do not let these Yorkists be our end._

_please_

* * *

 

_Her father stands before her, bloody and dripping._

_The sky is red and smudged with black clouds._

_Faceless men with white roses laugh and cackle._

_Madge sinks, ground wet and muddy and eating her alive._

_Help me! she wants to scream but she cannot, drowns quiet and afraid._

* * *

 

Her mother’s wedding day dawns, a bright June day that might as well be black and cold to match Madge’s mood. She spends a long time staring at the ceiling, willing this to be a nightmare she can wake up from. The idea of her mother marrying Lord Haymitch still makes Madge sick and she cannot help but think of her father, not even cold in his grave when the Yorkists struck with their greed and cruelty. It still doesn’t feel real that he’s dead, that she will never again see him in this life. And now his wife has been sold off to one of the men who helped him to his death.

_Curse the Yorkists; curse each and every one of them._

* * *

 

Madge dons her third and final new gown from Haymitch, the houppelande made of beautiful, shimmery silver tissue. The collar and cuffs are made of silk as is her girdle, each of them weighed down with diamonds. Her kirtle matches her gown, the material patterned with birds in a darker gray. Ladies’ maids that are still strangers to her plait her hair into intricate designs woven through with silver ribbons and topped with a headband studded with pearls, a gift from her almost-cousin the Queen. On her ears hang large diamonds surrounded by stylized silver flower petals, a great pearl dangling at the bottom of each. Her last adornment is a necklace of moonstones hanging from a delicate silver chain.

She feels a little like royalty as she sweeps from the room, eyes sticking to her as she makes her way to her mother’s chamber. The gown and jewels are magnificent, truly fit for a queen and Madge can’t help but wonder if the Yorkists are trying just as hard to woo her as she is them. It would make sense, as an heir to Lancaster, her support would be invaluable, especially as rumours circulate of a planned invasion by the King hiding in Scotland.

Madge is not so easily charmed. Her loyalty cannot be bought.

She arrives at her mother’s rooms and steps inside, finds Margaret already dressed and ready for the ceremony. Her gown is golden, her hennin shimmering with embroidered veils and her skin ashy and pale. She’s gained weight but is still too thin, the dress drowning her in luxurious fabric. Madge feels her heart squeeze and prays for a miracle, some sort of lightning strike to burn Westminster down around them and save them from this nightmare. No such providence comes and Madge enters the room with a heavy heart. Her mother turns to her and tries to smile, tired mouth not quite managing it. Madge bites her lip, hands clenched and _this isn’t right, this isn’t fair_.

“You look beautiful,” her mother says and Madge shakes her head, angry, frustrated tears building in her eyes.

“They can’t make you do this,” she insists and her mother tilts her head with pity.

“Yes they can. The Yorkists can make anyone do anything now, that is the privilege of kings.”

“Father’s only been dead a few months!”

“In their eyes he died a traitor, and why would we need to mourn a traitor?”

Madge closes her eyes, her father’s smile burning in her mind.

“He wasn’t, he _wasn’t_. He was…”

“He was the best man I’ve ever known,” her mother says softly and Madge looks up at her, tears wet on her cheeks.

“All my life, I have lived in the shadow of King Coriolanus. I have always known what kind of man he was, what a horrid, wicked king he was. So did your father. Marrying me meant tying himself to a king he despised, meant that he’d have to support Coriolanus against every enemy. People would never forgive me the sin of my blood and your father knew that. But for love of me, and for _you_ , our perfect, perfect daughter, he was willing to support the king, willing to die for him. In another life, I am sure your father would have sided with the Yorkists, at the least, he never would have fought for the king.”

Her mother’s smile is tragic and Madge covers her face with her hands, unable to control the tears leaking from her eyes.

“We must make difficult choices if we are to survive, your father and I knew that. I know it is not easy, I know it might feel wrong, but survival is what matters most. This upheaval will not last, eventually the country will settle. When it does, all I want is for you to be standing there, safe and alive and with your inheritance intact. That is all I have ever wanted. I swore, from the moment I first held you in my arms, that I would do anything for you, and that has not changed. You are the light of my life, sweet Madge, there is nothing I would not do for you.”

Madge takes unsteady steps forward and falls against her mother, heedless of the mess she must be making on her new gown. She hugs her tight, never ever wants to let her go.

“Hush, my love, it’s alright,” her mother murmurs, tone soothing and soft.

“I love you Mama,” she forces out and her mother’s hands are warm and sure on her back.

“We’ll be alright,” Margaret whispers and Madge nods against her shoulder. _We will be, I swear it._ Her mother is right of course, what matters is survival. And Madge, Madge _will_ survive. Careful neutrality will be her new strategy, patience until a final victor has emerged from the ashes.

York or Lancaster, whoever triumphs, Madge will outlast them all.

* * *

 

The ceremony is simple and solemn, Madge made of ice throughout. She does not listen to the vows, ignores the Priest as he drones on in Latin and closes her eyes when Haymitch places the ring on her mother’s finger.

_This is wrong_

_This is all wrong_

* * *

 

Though the ceremony may have been simple, the feast that follows is anything but.

Westminster has been decked out in splendor, beautifully decorated and filled with energetic minstrels. The Queen invites Madge and her mother to join her at the high table for the first time, certainly an honour even if it curdles Madge’s stomach. Katniss sits at the center, as always, Haymitch to her left and Gale to her right. Beside Gale is Duchess Elizabeth, then Lady Primrose and finally Gale’s mother, Lady Hazelle. To Haymitch’s left is his new wife and then Marvel, preening before the assembled eyes of all those seated in the great hall. Madge is beside him, seated at the edge of the table and burning under the scrutiny of everyone present. She smiles even though it aches, oohs and ahhs over every plate of food placed before them. She joins heartily in every toast offered and listens with feigned interest to Marvel’s incessant chatter.

The hall is loud with laughter and Madge wishes she could soak it all in, but her body is prickling, on edge as it always is when surrounded by Yorkists. She eats daintily, stomach roiling with snakes and giggles at Marvel’s jokes, which unfortunately encourages him to tell even more.

“Ah yes, the Duke of Suffolk, though it might be more apt to call him the Duke of Suf- _fat_ ,” he chortles and Madge smiles to hide her grimace. Marvel’s eyes glitter as he looks at her, Madge’s skin feeling hot and thankfully, servers come with the next course, interrupting whatever poor attempt at humor was about to leave his lips. Madge washes her hands and observes the platters of meat, each drenched in sweet smelling sauce. She intends to choose some quail, always a favorite of hers, when Marvel sticks out his arm.

“Allow me,” he says with a grin, indicating to a server to slice some swan for her. Madge blinks and forces down her words of protest. She digs her nails into her palms beneath the table but smiles appreciatively at Marvel, his face shining with pleasure. He leans over to whisper in her ear, his voice like melted butter.

“Only the most graceful of birds for my most graceful of sisters,” he purrs and Madge hopes he doesn’t notice how her shoulders tense. She can feel the strain in her smile and hurriedly turns to her plate, distracting herself with eating. The feast doesn’t move nearly fast enough and when desert finally arrives, Madge feels as if she’s been trapped with Marvel for days. He chooses her desert for her, marchpane and fruit paste, without asking her opinion and she forces herself to pretend to be charmed. He knocks his glass against hers, looking into her eyes for an uncomfortably long time.

“I am so pleased we are now family,” he tells her, voice warmed with mulled wine.

“As I am,” she agrees, dropping her eyes in what she hopes appears to be maiden shyness.

“Gale opposed this marriage you know, quite vehemently.”

Madge is not surprised. She pokes her marchpane half-heartedly, has never much enjoyed the taste. Marvel notices and frowns.

“Is it not to your liking?”

“Oh no, of course not. I’m just not very hungry,” she lies and Marvel nods.

“It is good for a woman to watch her figure,” he says and Madge clutches her knife tightly. His eyes slide down the table, landing on his cousins with disapproval. “Not everyone is so prudent,” he continues and Madge follows his gaze. Lady Primrose is laughing, her plate piled high with sugar and sweets. Katniss too is picking through a healthy assortment of confectionaries, a little of everything sampled on her plate. Marvel is still frowning at them and Madge feels a violent urge to eat everything in sight, simply to spite him. She settles on ignoring his comments instead, knows she cannot afford to alienate him, no matter how repugnant she finds his company. He doesn’t seem to mind and reaches forward, plucking some marchpane from her plate, his shoulder brushing hers.

“I must admit though,” he whispers, just for her, “I do have quite the hankering for sweet things.”

Madge represses the sudden desire to vomit.

Thankfully, mercifully, dinner ends and Madge almost heaves a sigh of relief. Servers hurriedly clear the tables and arrange the room for dancing, the minstrels striking up a much livelier tune. Marvel turns to beam at her and whatever relief she’d felt dies a sad death.

“May I have this dance?” he asks and she smiles.

“Of course.”

He leads her out onto the floor and Madge’s smile becomes a bit more genuine when she realizes this a group dance and not a couples’ one. Everyone assembles into a great circle and joins hands, Marvel to Madge’s left and the Earl of Pembroke to her right. She sees her mother and Haymitch across the circle, her mother’s eyes already drooping with exhaustion. Madge winces and then they begin, hopping and skipping to the music. Marvel’s grip is a bit too firm, tugging her along as if he does not trust her to be able to follow the steps. They all move inwards, joined hands raised and then back away again, separating with their partner for just a moment. Palm to palm, Madge and Marvel spin around, his hand touching her waist a little too familiarly. They return to the circle and begin again, twirling around the room. The dance is repetitive and energetic, but even still, Madge cannot help but focus on the feel of Marvel’s fingers through the material of her dress.

She is beyond relieved when the dance ends, Marvel pressing a much too long kiss to her hand, thumb rubbing over her knuckles. Haymitch and her mother arrive to swap partners and though Madge would rather spit in Haymitch’s eye than dance with him, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t prefer him to Marvel. They perform a slow, stately bassedance together and then she’s swept up by the Earl of Pembroke for a pavane. The portly Duke of Suffolk begs her hand for a group dance, this time in a line rather than a circle. She manages to escape when the dance ends, exclaiming loudly that she is in need of refreshments. She flees to a server at the edge of the room, gulping hastily at the wine he offers. Her mother has retaken her seat at the table, face pinched and colourless and _go to bed,_ Madge wants to tell her, _sleep._ She knows she wouldn’t listen though, would be determined to remain and entertain her guests. _Appearances are everything, aren’t they Mother?_ Madge sets down her goblet with a _thunk_.

_Curse the Yorkists._

A giggling Lady Primrose drags a grimacing Rory of Salisbury into the center of the room and Madge spies Marvel trying to catch her eye, her stomach turning to stone. She hastily averts her gaze only to notice something perhaps worse. Katniss is still seated at the head table, hasn’t danced even once, and now she and Gale are in heated conference, Katniss gesturing at what has to be Madge. Her face is anxious and Gale is scowling, arguing in hushed tones. He stands abruptly and marches down from the dais, steely eyes trained on Madge. He is heading right for her and she wants to run, hide but Madge of Bedford is no coward. She watches him steadily, smile firmly in place. He stops in front of her and for a moment no one speaks, the two of them merely staring. Finally, he bows.

“Would you do me the privilege of this dance, Lady Madge?”

He is here against his will, part of Katniss’ design to show that York and Lancaster are truly united. She remembers another sovereign forcing his relative to dance with her and she feels only slightly less reluctant now than she did at nine years old.

“It would be an honour,” she replies, sweeping into a curtsy. Gale nods and takes her hand, leading her out amongst the other couples. The music indicates a gaillard, a fast paced couples dance, and Madge does all she can to appear excited. Gale stands a bit too far away from her, their arms stretching the obvious distance between them. She wonders what they must look like, obviously uncomfortable, but still she smiles, moving with all the grace she can muster. She tries to catch his eye, tries to coax out a smile but he is entirely unmoved, gaze fixed firmly above her head.

“The gardens really are looking quite lovely, you did a wonderful job,” she says brightly.

“Thank you,” he answers, tone flat and eyes still looking at everyone but her. Madge covers her frustration with a shy smile and breathy laughter as he spins her around.

“I must agree with your sister, Lady Posy. I too love a good garden.”

“Hmm,” is his only response and Madge is somehow meant to charm him, but it is difficult when he is so determined to be resistant.

_Why are you so stubborn?_

Even still, he proves a better partner than Prince Cato, never once stomping rudely on her foot or sneering. He surpasses Marvel too, who’d dragged her around the room as if he didn’t believe her capable of remembering the necessary steps. Gale leads, but gently, allowing them to fall into step far more naturally than Marvel ever would. His hands never touch her in places they shouldn’t, in contrast, her holds her loosely, making as little contact with her as he can. She wants to grit her teeth or throw up her hands in surrender, this dance almost painful, but still she perseveres.

_No one will ever be able to say I didn’t try_

Finally, most mercifully, the music stops, the dance over. Gale drops her hands quickly, jaw chewing on words.

“You are an excellent dancer,” he manages to compliment, even if he sounds entirely insincere. Madge bows her head, curtseying in gratitude.

“It is merely because I had such an exceptional partner,” she counters and he stares at her, mouth twitching in what could be an attempt at a smile. He nods, a new song begins and he doesn’t walk away, hesitates by her side for several awkward seconds. Suddenly, strangely, unexpectedly, he bends down and kisses her hand, the very first time he’s done it in all these months of knowing each other. He straightens and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, his still an unyielding silver. _What will it take to win you?_ she wonders, smiling her most beguiling smile. Gale simply nods again and turns to walk away, back over to an anxious Katniss. Madge watches him go, the skin of her hand tingling.

 _You will not resist me forever,_ she vows, eyes stuck to him as he leans to murmur in Katniss’ ear.

_One day, Gale of Salisbury, you will love me._


	4. the fool of hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who, exactly, is the enemy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took me way longer than I thought it would! Sorry! Still, I hope it was worth the wait and thank you for reading :)  
> Also, Happy Gadge Day!!

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_part one_  
 _now rises the sun of york_  
 _chapter three_  
 _the fool of hearts_

The very next day, Madge is woken early by a maid.

“What is it?” she asks, head thudding a bit from too much wine.

“The Duke requested I wake you, my lady, as he wishes you to prepare to leave as soon as possible.”

For a moment Madge is confused. _The Duke? Oh._ Cold realization washes over her and the maid means Haymitch. Though still Earl of Warwick, marriage to her mother has also made him Duke of Clarence, a far more impressive title, not to mention one with royal connections.

“Did the Duke mention where we’d be going?” she asks, the word _Duke_ tasting sour on her tongue. The maid shakes her head.

“No, my lady.”

Madge sighs and collapses back into bed, frowning into her pillow.

_Officially my step-father and still, he is determined to keep me in the dark._

* * *

 

Dressed in her one traveling gown and with her things packed, Madge breaks her fast with her mother, still with no idea where they’re going.

“Has he mentioned to you where he’s taking us?” she asks as she nibbles on bread and Margaret shakes her head.

“I haven’t seen him since the feast last night and he didn’t say a word about leaving.”

Madge is both pleased her mother and Haymitch spent the night apart and beyond aggravated that he won’t even trust his wife with their travel plans. She settles on a mild frown. _I suppose I should have expected that this would be no marriage of equals._ Her mother sighs tiredly and forces down some cheese, last night’s festivities having clearly taken their toll. Madge bites her lip, worried as she always seems to be lately and then Lord Haymitch himself decides to grace them with his presence. Her mother immediately stands to greet him, Madge following much more reluctantly. They curtsy and he nods to them, a harried look on his face. He seems distracted and Madge wonders what could have him so on edge.

“Greetings, my lord husband,” her mother says and Haymitch’s face twitches.

“Are you packed and ready?” he asks, tone impatient. Madge feels herself bristling.

“Yes, we are both ready to leave whenever you wish it,” her mother answers and he nods again. Madge cannot help but admire her mother’s skill, showing not a single sign of ruffled feathers at Haymitch’s snappish mood.

“Good. You’ll be moving to Warwick Castle immediately,” Haymitch commands and Madge barely restrains her frown. She’d figured he was probably sending them away to one of his properties, but she’d been holding out hope that it would be one of the castles he’d gained from her mother, something at least familiar to Madge. Instead they are headed to the very seat of Haymitch’s power.

“Will you not be accompanying us?” her mother asks and Haymitch shakes his head, just a hint of frustration washing over his face.

“No, there is much too much to do here,” he says and Madge feels her interest rise. “I will join you when I’m able. Marvel will escort you.”

Madge feels her stomach drop.

Not Marvel, _anyone_ but Marvel.

Her mother nods like this is perfectly agreeable and so does Madge, even as she wants to scream. Her step-brother is the last person she wants to spend any time with, and certainly not a long journey followed by close quarters in Warwick Castle with no one else to distract him. As much as she hates London, hates Westminster, she’d much rather stay here and find out what’s gotten under Haymitch’s skin than be banished away to Warwickshire with Marvel as company.

But of course, Madge won’t be getting what she wants.

She never does.

* * *

 

They’re loaded into a litter and Haymitch does not come to see them off, stalks away with murmured apologies, _but there’s just so much to do_.

Marvel is waiting for them in the courtyard, dressed in fine velvet that must be roasting him in the summer sun. He mounts his horse, his black cape threaded through with silver swinging around him dramatically and his hat, decorated with a bejeweled peacock feathers, glittering. He pulls on his gloves and Madge rolls her eyes. _He is certainly overdressed_. She goes to settle back into her seat when she sees him, Gale of Salisbury, exiting the castle and moving towards Marvel. She narrows her eyes and watches them converse, her own vow from last night echoing in her ears.

_One day, Gale of Salisbury, you will love me._

Just as the carriage starts to lurch forward, Madge leans out the window.

“Fare thee well Lord Gale!” she calls, waving her handkerchief at him. He turns to her with wide, confused eyes and Madge smiles as brightly as she’s able. He is used to her being polite when they are forced to interact, but this, her being cheery and friendly when she could so easily ignore him and no one would care, this he cannot understand. He does not answer, probably cannot, but he watches her as the carriage pulls farther away, never once looks away.

It isn’t much, not yet, but it’s a start.

* * *

 

Madge looks out the window at Warwick Castle as they roll through its gates and only one thought comes to mind.

_This is not home._

Marvel helps her dismount, somehow managing to pull her flush against him as she steps down. He doesn’t let go, holding onto her for an uncomfortably long time and Madge begins to wonder how to politely extricate herself when her mother nearly trips down the carriage steps, forcing Marvel to release Madge and attend to his step-mother. He takes her mother by the arm and then thrusts his elbow at Madge, something she takes with barely concealed reluctance.

“Welcome to Warwick Castle!” he bellows and Madge looks up at the imposing castle, her blood chilling. “And now, allow me to give you a tour.”

Madge peeks over at her mother, tired and swaying on her feet. She turns back to Marvel.

“Actually, would you mind terribly, my good lord, if we went to rest until dinner? The ride has exhausted me.”

Marvel looks down at her and for a moment she is afraid he’ll refuse.

“Ah yes, of course. Women are so delicate, so fragile,” he says with a smile and reaches out to stroke her cheek. Madge feels a shudder trying to beat its way up her back and forces it down. She plasters on a smile and can feel it twitching in the corners.

“Thank you for understanding,” she manages. He claps his hands to summon the servants.

“Show the ladies to their rooms,” he orders. They do just that and Madge dismisses those who wish to help her unpack. She collapses face first onto the bed and tries, at least for the moment, to pretend she is somewhere safe.

(she can’t help but wonder if she’ll ever be safe again)

The bed sheets are cool, but she knows body heat will change that. As for the rest of the room…She pulls herself up onto her elbows and looks around, the whole place elegant but lifeless, grey and dull. It is clean, but feels unused, everything from the wall tapestries to the finely carved furniture lacking any brightness or warmth. This does not feel like a room she is meant to feel at home in.

It feels like a guest’s room.

She’ll need flowers, lots of them, maybe some new pillows, even some embroidery to hang on the walls, anything to add a splash of colour. She can’t be sure if this is some game of theirs, to remind her of her place, but Madge won’t bow to it. She will make this room her own.

After all, enough small victories and eventually, she’ll win the war.

* * *

 

Her mother takes dinner upstairs and Madge is left to suffer Marvel’s company alone.

They sit across from each other in the smaller, more intimate dining hall reserved for immediate family and Madge tries not to flinch every time she feels his foot brush up against her leg. He takes the liberty of choosing all her food for her and smiles leeringly. Madge commends herself on not vomiting.

“With all the excitement, I‘ve been away from my properties far too long,” he says with an easy laugh and Madge suppresses a frown. _Excitement? Because war and bloodshed are just so very exciting._

“But first I plan to stop at my new properties, gifted to me by the Queen,” he says smugly and Madge supposes she is meant to be impressed. She digs deep to summon up a smile.

“Oh,” she says and winces at her lack of enthusiasm. It turns out not to matter, Marvel much too busy nodding to himself to notice.

“Yes, she has just recently presented me with Stourton Castle in Staffordshire and Clare Castle in Suffolk. I must visit them to ensure they are up to my standards. I tolerate only the best.”

Madge smiles in what she hopes passes for understanding. Marvel reaches across the table to pat her hand.

“I shall be leaving in a day or two,” he says and Madge’s eyes widen in surprised relief, “though do not worry,” he hurries to continue, squeezing her hand, “I am sure we shall not be parted for long.”

Madge smiles, torn between relief and the inevitability of what he’s said.

“I’m sure,” she agrees, because as much as she wishes otherwise, she is sure he’s right.

But at least he’ll be gone soon. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

* * *

 

Madge embroiders by candlelight, shining silver bells ringed in red roses to hang on her walls. She is certain the servants will report it immediately to Haymitch, certain he will order them removed and perhaps burned, just like her banner. If asked, she will plead ignorance, that it was merely because the red contrasted so nicely with the silver.

Madge knows it is contradictory to her aim of winning over these Yorkists, but then, as much as she wishes she were a creature of logic, her emotions have always held greater sway. This little act of rebellion might well undermine her efforts, but hearts so rarely listen to reason.

(and anyway, the red is not for Lancaster)

(it’s for blood)

(and rage)

(and heartbreak)

* * *

 

The next day dawns bright and beautiful and warm, but Madge hardly notices. She spends it entirely in Marvel’s company, his presence casting a pall of darkness over everything. She comforts herself with the knowledge that he’ll soon be gone, _just survive a little longer. Just a little longer._

He takes her for a very, very long tour of the gardens, which normally would have been enjoyable, except of course, that she has to spend it with Marvel. He regales her with details of the castle, the gardens and grandiose tales of his family’s glory, some of which she most certainly does not believe.

(one she can believe, on the other hand,  is that apparently his ancestor once helped to decapitate King Edward II’s lover Piers Gaveston)

(after all, she knows all about their murderous habits)

He sits her down on a bench and recites poetry, though thankfully not his own. She applauds when necessary and keeps a smile frozen on her face, does her absolute best not to cringe when he reads something about love and then winks at her suggestively. He tucks a flower behind her ear, fingers trailing unnecessarily through her hair and then they’re off again, this time for a tour of the castle itself. He talks so much she’s surprised he hasn’t gone hoarse, fills her head to the brim with stories of his glorious ancestors, all the way from the time of William the Conqueror.

At this point Madge has had enough and feigns heat exhaustion, sagging into his arms and pleading to be brought to bed. He carries her to her chambers, assuring her over and over that she will be well taken care of and chuckling about the fragility of women.

(which he seems to believe is a good thing, most probably because it allows him to play the hero)

(Madge is beginning to wonder how he could possibly have managed to support Katniss, what with all his ideas about the inherent weakness of women)

(she is smart enough not to ask)

He sets her down and she allows all her mother’s ladies to fuss about, pressing cold cloths to her head and fanning her, because anything is better than more time with Marvel. He offers to linger but she waves him away, invents some story about not wanting him to see her in so disheveled a state. He nods and agrees, telling her he does not want “to tarnish the image of your beauty I have in my mind”. Madge barely manages not to gag.

At dinner she is forced to descend to the dining hall, but thankfully her mother joins them, dragging at least part of Marvel’s attention away. He tells them all about his exploits in the war, his heroism and daring, how he apparently won the day nearly single handedly. Madge wonders how Katniss, Gale and Haymitch would feel about this particular retelling.

And then finally the evening ends and Madge is allowed to escape. Marvel informs them that he will be leaving in the morning and her heart soars amid all his apologies. She assures him all is well, that she understands how important he is and allows him to slather kisses all over her hands.

Madge falls into bed with a true, genuine smile on her face.

_I have survived King Coriolanus_

_Survived Queen Katniss’ court_

_And now Marvel_

_If I can survive all that_

_I can survive anything_

* * *

 

Madge sees Marvel off in the morning, in a far cheerier mood than she’s been in for quite some time.

“I hope you will not be too distraught without me,” he says, entirely serious, and Madge smiles, her joy eclipsing any annoyance she feels at his words.

“I shall try my best to find a way to survive your absence,” she responds and he nods gravely, squeezing her hands.

“I’ve given strict instructions to the Constable, after all, two women alone is a very dangerous situation.”

Madge doesn’t roll her eyes even though she wants to. She wonders if he’s aware that she and her mother spent most of the war alone and managed just fine. He leans in very close.

“Perhaps a token, to carry me on my way?”

Madge, wanting him gone as soon as possible, plucks a ribbon from her hair and tucks into his glove. He grins and pulls her near, their bodies touching in a way that makes her very uncomfortable. He inhales deeply, nose buried in her hair and she closes her eyes, hoping he moves away soon.

“Sweet, sweet sister,” he croons in her ear and then kisses her cheek, his lips pressing against the corner of her mouth. She stiffens, eyes opening wide, but knows better than to say anything. He finally pulls away and mounts his horse, Madge’s good mood strangled somewhere in her chest. She waves to him as he rides out with his retinue, her stomach clenching when he tosses her a wink. The sun is hot on her head and yet she feels cold, the urge to scrub herself clean bubbling beneath her skin.

 _He’s gone now,_ she reassures herself _, at least he’s gone now._

_(he’ll be back)_

* * *

 

(of course, there are still Yorkists everywhere)

(every servant is also an informant, every groom and clerk and lady watching her every move)

(there is no freedom here)

(nor anywhere in England)

(at least not for her)

* * *

 

Two days later, Haymitch comes clattering into the courtyard on his horse.

Madge and her mother greet him in the entrance hall, pretend to all the world that they are pleased to see him. He looks frazzled as he pulls off his gloves, hair windswept and frown lines deep in his face. He sighs and then turns to the Lord Steward waiting just a few steps behind them.

“Ale,” he says shortly, the Lord Steward hurrying off to fetch it and Madge wonders if he’s even noticed the two of them.

“Greetings, my lord husband,” Margaret says and Haymitch finally looks at her. Something about him seems older, which is silly, Madge knows, as it’s only been a week since she’d last saw him.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey,” her mother continues and Haymitch grunts.

“I won’t be staying long,” he informs them, “just until tomorrow.”

Madge blinks in surprise, hardly believing such good fortune. Her mother waits politely for Haymitch to continue.

“I must ride out tomorrow to join the Queen on progress,” he explains and everything becomes so much clearer. No wonder Haymitch has been in such a sour mood. A Royal Progress is usually planned out over several months, not the single week Katniss seems to have allowed.

“Will the Queen be stopping here?” her mother asks and Haymitch shakes his head.

“No. She had wanted to, but we can be assured of my loyalty. It makes much more sense to honour those whose loyalty needs to be guaranteed.”

Her mother nods.

“I won’t be back until at least August, that’s why I’ve come now. I need to make sure everything is properly arranged for my absence.”

Her mother nods like it’s not an insult to suggest she wouldn’t know how to run a castle and Madge forces herself not to bristle. The Steward reappears and hands Haymitch his ale, the cup filled to the brim. Haymitch drinks deeply, almost as if he intends to drain it all, and then turns to Madge.

“I’ve brought you back someone from London. A maid, to do your hair or clean your chambers, or whatever it is you need. She’s waiting outside.”

Haymitch turns to leave before Madge can say anything, not that she knows what she’d say. She watches his departing back, something about this feeling off. Why would he bring her a maid all the way from London? If this girl is just meant to clean her things, would it not have been simpler just to hire a local? Madge steps outside cautiously, uncertainty prickling at her nerves and there she is, the new maid dressed in a ratty traveling cloak and a worn dress, her head turned to the dirt below her feet. She has very dark hair hanging down around her face and Madge can’t get a clear look at her, something in her gut tightening in concern.

“Hello, I’m Lady Madge. My stepfather the Duke informs me that you are to be my new maid,” Madge begins, hoping she sounds welcoming. The girl nods timidly, pale hands clenching into fists in the folds of her dress as she curtsies low, her skirt sweeping the dusty ground.

“May I know your name?” Madge asks and the girl pauses, bending even farther forward so her hair obscures her every feature.

“Anne, my lady,” she whispers and Madge leans forward to hear her better.

“Anne,” she repeats and bites her lip. “It’s a very nice name. I had a friend called Anne once.”

“A friend?” Anne asks, voice thin and terrified.

“Yes, or at least, I always thought of her as a friend. I can’t say what she thought of me,” Madge laughs, trying to make a joke but Anne inhales wetly, as if about to cry. Madge’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Is everything alright?” she asks and Anne buries her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry, my lady, I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” she sobs and Madge shakes her head in bafflement.

“Whatever for?”

Anne doesn’t answer, still in tears, and Madge gently pries her hands from her face.

_No_

She gasps and drops Anne’s hands, all of her blood freezing in an instant. _I know that face…_ It’s been years, but still, Madge recognizes her instantly.

“Anne? Anne of Oxford?” she asks in horror and Anne shakes her head.

“It is just Anne now, my lady. My father is a traitor to the crown, and thus he has been attainted. I am no one now.”

Madge shakes her head slowly, feeling sick.

“Lady Madge, the Duchess has requested your presence inside,” someone says from behind her but she doesn’t answer, eyes still trained on Anne.

“Lady Madge?”

_The Yorkists have to pay._

_I’ll make them pay._

_In blood._

* * *

 

Madge is a storm about to explode at the dining table, sits through a meal with Haymitch while lightning crackles in her veins.

 _How dare they?_ she thinks, Anne’s voice echoing in her head.

_I am no one now_

The eleven year old Anne Madge remembers was a bit nervous yes, but she’d smiled easily, laughed, looked alive and happy. The seventeen year old Anne of today was pale and terrified and forced into servitude against her will. Madge doubts Anne choose this career of her own volition, doubts too that Anne will receive fair wages or have the choice to leave and seek employment elsewhere.

This is a punishment. But for what? Her father’s sins?

_Be careful Yorkists._

_Are you ready to pay for_ your _sins?_

* * *

 

Madge returns to her chambers and orders that Anne be brought to her. She waits impatiently, nervously, and dismisses everyone else when Anne is finally brought to her, head downturned and eyes avoiding Madge’s. Anne looks frail and gaunt in the afternoon sun and Madge can feel a cacophony of words swelling on her tongue.

 _What do I say? What_ can _I say?_

“How did…how did this happen?” she finally asks and Anne closes her eyes. A dark shadow crosses her face and Madge digs her nails into her palms, so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if she drew blood.

“My father was fighting for the King, I hadn’t heard from him in so long and then…then the Yorkists came.” Anne’s voice is oddly flat, eerily devoid of emotion and Madge feels a knife digging deep into her gut. “They stormed the castle and took me prisoner; they didn’t even give me a chance to change out of my nightclothes. They wouldn’t tell me what had befallen my father, but it was clear the King had lost. I was brought to London and put in a cell in the Tower. I stayed for months, in the dark, with no news, no idea what was happening. Finally, Lord Haymitch came. He told me my father was a traitor, had been attainted and I was no one now. But he had an offer. I could leave with him, to serve you.” Anne’s voice suddenly becomes small, so quiet Madge can barely make it out, “Anything is better than the dark.”

Madge covers her mouth with her hands and has no idea what to say.

“I apologize, my lady. It is not my place to complain.”

Madge feels a hot fire erupt in her stomach, hatred clogging her veins.

“Do not apologize, Anne, not to me. It is the Yorkists who should be begging _your_ forgiveness.”

Anne looks up at her finally, eyes wide and wet.

“What?”

“They had no right to treat you like a criminal, but then, they had no right to any of this.” Madge steps forward and grabs Anne’s shoulders, squeezing them firmly. “You are Anne of Oxford, no matter what they say. We are both traitors’ daughters, but we are not alone. You will always have an ally in me, a friend.”

Anne’s face crumples and she covers it with her hands, her whole body shaking.

“I…I…I never thought I’d see the sun again, never thought they’d let me out of that dungeon. I…I just…thank you, Madge.” Anne pauses, voice struggling in her throat. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Madge pulls her in for a hug, Anne’s arms clinging to her tightly.

“You won’t be Anne, I promise. We have each other now.”

* * *

 

_how could they do this?_

_how?_

_weren’t they supposed to be liberating us from evil?_

_liars_

* * *

 

Anne’s tears finally run out and she and Madge sit on the floor, heedless of the dust and dirt. Madge rubs her back and Anne fiddles nervously with a thread from her dress.

“Do you…have you heard of any Lancastrian survivors?” she asks, clearly terrified of the answer. Madge squeezes her hand in reassurance.

“Your father is fine. He’s in Scotland with the King.”

Anne scrunches her dripping eyes shut and presses her forehead to her knees.

“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness,” she sniffles and Madge smiles, happy she has good news to give.

“Were there…any others?” Anne asks quietly and Madge pauses in thought.

“Yes…Brutus, the Duke of…”

“Somerset,” Anne supplies, her tone cold. Madge frowns and looks down at Anne’s hands, curled tight into fists. But then she remembers Christmas, that horrid, wicked Christmas and Lord Brutus with his cruelty, the way he’d dragged that serving boy off with bloodlust thick in his eyes.

(perhaps his survival is not one worth celebrating)

“Also,” she hurries to continue, wanting to blot away the memories, “Boggs, the King’s half-brother and their nephew, Finnick of Richmond, are both in Scotland as well.”

Anne’s whole body shudders as she bursts into tears again, Madge staring at her shock.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Anne wails, “I’m just so relived. I was afraid, so horribly afraid. They’re alright. Thank the Lord, they’re alright.”

Madge takes one of her hands and squeezes it, noticing for the first time the ring she’s wearing. Unlike everything else Anne has on, this ring is beautiful and clearly quite costly. It is a gold band with a sizeable diamond in the center and tiny clusters of sapphires on either side. Madge blinks at it and somehow, Anne must have kept it hidden through her months of captivity.

“I’m sorry,” Anne says again and Madge shakes her head.

“You don’t need to apologize, Anne.”

“Annie,” she interrupts and Madge tilts her head.  “If we’re friends, you must call me Annie.”

Madge smiles.

“Annie,” she says and Annie looks up, wiping at her eyes. “We are friends, that I can promise. And I shall pray for your father every night, that the two of you will soon be reunited.”

Annie smiles through her tears and Madge cannot help the pang she feels in her heart, because no matter what she prays, her father will still be lost to her. Perhaps Annie can read her mind, for she wraps an arm around Madge, pulling her close until their heads press together. Madge can feel tears prickling her eyes and frowns.

“I shouldn’t be crying,” she finds herself saying, “I’m sorry.”

Annie shakes her head.

“Don’t be. And thank you, Madge. I shall pray for your family too. Perhaps we shall still have our happy endings.”

 _My father is dead,_ Madge thinks _, I shall never be happy again._ Instead of saying it though, Madge simply hugs Annie close and chooses, at least for this one moment, to believe in a better tomorrow.

* * *

 

Annie stays with her all night, the two of them not quite ready to be alone. They lie together under the covers and Madge keeps a candle burning to stave off the dark, Annie still shrinking from every shadow.

“I’m sorry,” Annie breathes but Madge shakes her head.

“Don’t be.”

Madge tells Annie everything then, all about the war, all that has happened since. Annie listens patiently, squeezes Madge’s hand when tears threaten her voice but never shares her own story. Madge does not mind. She might find comfort in telling, but Annie might find it in forgetting. Madge cannot blame her.

(strangely, even though Madge tells her everything, she omits just one fact)

( _one day, Gale of Salisbury, you will love me_ )

(for some reason, she keeps that to herself)

* * *

 

The next morning Haymitch leaves as promised, loosening Madge’s shackles, if only a little.

She and Annie take a walk in the gardens, though Madge is careful to let Yorkists spies think it is just a lady and her attendant, at least until they‘re out of sight. When they are, they lie back in the grass and try to divine the future from the shapes of the clouds.

“That looks like a rabbit. Aren’t they lucky? Perhaps fortune is soon to favour us,” Annie says and Madge wishes she could believe it.

“I suppose that looks like a boot,” she offers and doesn’t say _perhaps we are soon to be crushed underfoot._

“Mm,” Annie agrees, “I think it does.”

* * *

 

At night they sit in her room and embroider, Madge stitching a memorial to her father to hang above her bed. Annie works diligently at what could be a dragon and Madge looks at it curiously. Annie notices and blushes.

“It’s a wyvern,” she explains and Madge shrugs, having never heard of one. “It means valor and protection.”

 _Oh._ Well, Madge can imagine why she might want that.

They could both use all the protection they can get.

_(but will it be enough?)_

_(could anything be enough?)_

* * *

 

Madge stands for the fitting of a new travelling gown, her old one starting to fray at the edges.

The tailor measures and pins while Madge’s eyes sweep over her room, the maids busying themselves with cleaning. Or at least, that’s their stated purpose. In reality, they pull back the covers of her bed, reach hands to feel around beneath her mattress, open and riffle through every drawer and cupboard. In their guise of tidying up, they are really searching for signs of disobedience, of subterfuge, of rebellion. Madge pretends not to care as they shake out her pillows, peer behind every tapestry and frown at the red roses hanging on her walls.

The best defense she has right now is that they think her ignorant of their true purpose. They think they’ve fooled her, think she truly believes they’re just cleaning. Madge knows better. There is nothing for them to find, not really, she has made sure of that. Let them pilfer and search and comb over every inch of her chambers. Madge owns nothing incriminating and even if she did, she would never leave it anywhere they could find it. She is part of no conspiracy, has only vague ideas of vengeance. If she were to ever make solid plans, if she ever did join a full blown plot, they would never know.

Madge has no choice but to be one step ahead of these spies at her side.

So she will be.

* * *

 

(how exhausting it is for England, to live in such a state of utter distrust)

* * *

 

June fades into a hazy July and Madge thinks about the Royal Progress, wonders where the Queen and her retinue are now.

_At least they’re not here._

* * *

 

Annie and a few of Madge’s other servants have a chamber adjoining hers, just in case she should need them. Some nights, when Madge cannot sleep, specters dripping blood into her dreams, she can hear tears, wretched, heart rending sobs, the kind that make Madge herself want to cry and bawl and wail.

Sometimes, she simply buries her head beneath her pillow and tries not to listen, but most nights Madge rises from bed and sits on the floor, ear pressed to the door between their two rooms. She knows, without having to look inside, that it’s Annie. Even though Annie never speaks about her time in the Tower, even though she tries so hard to act as if nothing is amiss, Madge knows she is lying. Maybe because Madge herself is a liar, every day, smiling, happy, as if her entire world hadn’t burned down into ashes. She thinks, sometimes, of going inside, of holding Annie until the tears stop, of trying to find some words of comfort. But what could she say?

 _It’s alright?_ But it isn’t, none of this is alright.

 _It’ll be okay?_ But Madge cannot guarantee that, finds it hard to believe that anything will ever be okay again.

 _I’m here? You’re not alone?_ But Annie already knows that and clearly, it’s not enough.

In the end, Madge presses her forehead to the door and swears _I’ll avenge you Annie, I’ll avenge us all._

Maybe, one day, it will be the Yorkists crying themselves to sleep instead.

* * *

 

At least once every week Madge receives a letter from Marvel, always filled to the brim with self-aggrandizement.

She sighs as she opens the newest one, Annie peering over her shoulder. It is mercifully short, just a bit of bragging about his new castles, the improvements he plans to make and of course, how he would so love a visit from her. Madge rolls her eyes.

“ _As Master of the North, it is my duty to have the grandest castles I can. Not that anyone here could ever hope to come close to my splendor, but still, I must always strive for more_ ,” Annie reads with barely concealed giggles. Madge gags.

“He’s certainly something,” Annie says and Madge nods with a grimace.

“ _The North is a wild land, but rest assured, I have tamed it_ ,” she quotes and Annie bites her lip, a smile threatening her face. Madge tears the letter into pieces. “Be glad you haven’t met him,” she tells Annie.

“Oh don’t worry, I am.”

Annie sweeps up the letter fragments with a laugh and Madge closes her eyes, tries to blot out the final few lines, the ones she’d made sure Annie never saw.

_I still have your token, sister sweet, and oh how I yearn for more. Come to see me and I promise, I shall make it worth the journey._

* * *

 

Sometimes, Madge fells like she cannot breathe within Warwick’s walls, needs to escape the eyes watching her from every corner. The gardens with their hidden grooves are her only sanctuary; even the chapel filled with spies cataloguing her every move. Nestled between the hedges, Madge feels a little safer, comforted by the illusion of solitude and she and Annie spend most of their days there, embroidering or reading or weaving flowers into necklaces.

On one such day, Madge looks up at the sky, bluer than anything she’s ever seen, and sighs happily.

“I love summer,” she says and Annie nods, a faraway look in her eyes.

“We used to spend most summers at my father’s castle in Essex, near the coast. I loved the sea.”

Her voice is wistful, yearning and Madge reaches over to squeeze her hand.

“Finnick had a castle not too far away,” Annie murmurs and Madge raises her eyebrows in curiosity.

“Oh, did you know him very well?” she asks and Annie looks up at the sun, her eyes reflecting its glow.

“It almost feels like another lifetime now,” she whispers.

 _It is another lifetime,_ Madge thinks _, a better lifetime._

* * *

 

Once, just after supper, Madge stumbles upon Annie crying. She muffles her tears into a scrap of fabric and the hand wearing the pretty ring she never takes off is cradled next to her heart. Madge freezes, unsure what to do. Annie has not cried in front of her since that first day, keeps her pain carefully hidden.

_Oh Annie…_

Madge takes tentative steps forward and lightly touches Annie’s shoulder, not wishing to startle her. Annie looks up at her and Madge notices a wyvern in shimmery thread stitched onto her handkerchief. Annie bites into her lip and ducks her head, Madge taking a seat beside her. Neither one of them says anything, but Annie leans against her, body shaking, and Madge wraps her arms around her, hoping that at least for now, this will be enough.

* * *

 

_the Yorkists cannot get away with this, they just can’t_

* * *

 

August arrives in a golden glow and it would be easy to forget she was a prisoner, locked up tight behind Haymitch’s walls. Her mother seems healthier, strength returning to her; Annie is here, her friendship a greater gift than Madge could have imagined; and the Yorkists exist only peripherally, far off somewhere on their great progress.

Except of course, she cannot forget.

Warwick Castle still does not feel like home, she must still guard her words, must act like Annie is nothing but a maid when anyone else is near, still has no freedom to leave the castle grounds.

It is a gilded cage certainly, but still a cage. She must never forget that.

( _how could I?)_

* * *

 

In those long, hot days, Madge begins her fight.

She uses Haymitch’s gold to supply her maids with new clothes and furnishings. Her excuse to the Steward is that they need to look their best if they are to serve her, while proper bedding will give them better rest and thus allow them to work harder. She buys tapestries, supposedly for her own room but then hangs them in the servants’ quarters, picks them flowers from the gardens, tips them handsomely from Haymitch’s coffers. She smiles at every servant, from grooms to clerks to cooks, makes a point to learn all their names. She greets them as they pass, asks after them, is sure to thank and compliment them whenever appropriate.

Madge behaved much the same back home at Bedford Castle, has always despised those who treated their servants with disdain or cruelty. They may be paid to serve her, but they are still human, just as much as she is. She would be kind anyway, but now, in this new England, Madge has even more reasons for her actions.

Firstly, these maids are spies, instructed by Haymitch to keep careful watch over her and Madge hopes to win their affection, their loyalty. Underhanded it may be, but she is tired of being watched. She wants them to know that she would be happy to be their friend, if only they would be hers.

Secondly, Annie has been made a servant as punishment for her father’s loyalties. Madge is determined to make this the most comfortable punishment she can.

Haymitch will not win this game. Madge has generosity as her weapon and she will use it.

_Let kindness be their downfall._

* * *

 

“If you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?” Annie asks as she helps Madge dress. Faint morning light shines through the window and there are so many possibilities, glittering foreign courts, exotic locales, but in the end, the answer is obvious.

“Home.”

* * *

 

In late September, they finally hear word from Haymitch.

They are breaking their fast when a messenger comes bearing a letter with Haymitch’s seal, the first they’ve heard from him in months. Her mother takes it and pays the courier, all while Madge cannot help the flood of bitterness welling inside of her. It’s a wonder Haymitch even remembered they were here. Her mother breaks the seal and scans the message quickly, a frown carving deep lines into her face.

“What is it?” Madge asks, nerves tightening.

“Lord Haymitch commands us to move south immediately and to take up residence in his castle of Warblington in Hampshire.”

Madge feels her stomach curdle.

“Why?”

“He does not say, but he orders that we do not tarry.”

 _Orders?_ Madge wants to spit in frustration, but knows she can’t. Haymitch’s spies stand all around them, would be more than happy to report any misbehavior on her part.

“Can we not go to your castle of Portchester? It too is in Hampshire.”

Her mother shakes her head.

“His orders are that we go to Warblington, so we will. Be ready as soon as you’re able, darling.”

Madge bites her tongue and nods. This is a cruel reminder, but a necessary one.

The Yorkists are still their masters.

( _but not for long_ , Madge vows, _not for long_ )

* * *

 

Warblington Castle is an austere place. Or at least, that’s how it seems to Madge, this new and unfamiliar prison.

Annie helps her unpack and Madge can’t help but wonder what Haymitch is up to. _Why move us from Warwick? Why not tell us why?_ There had been no message awaiting them when they’d arrived and something about this feels secret, dangerous even. _Something’s going on, but what? Why Warblington? Why south?_

And then it comes to her.

The King is in Scotland and for months there have been rumors that he was planning an invasion. Finally, half a year since he lost his throne, King Coriolanus must be making his bid to reclaim it. That _has_ to be it. Haymitch has moved Madge and her mother as from the action as he can and kept them thoroughly in the dark, all to ensure they can’t rally anyone to the Lancastrian cause.

_They’re afraid of us._

Madge drops to her knees and begins to pray. Annie looks over in alarm.

“Madge?”

“The King has invaded,” she says, hands clutching her rosary. Annie doesn’t question how she knows this, she simply kneels beside her and joins Madge in prayer.

_Let Lancaster prevail_

_Let York fall_

_Please, let us win this fight_

* * *

 

Madge had almost forgotten how horrible it is to wait for news.

Every day she hopes for some word from the front, but there is nothing, always nothing. Devoid of any idea of the state of affairs up north, Madge focuses instead on what she’ll do if ( _when_ ) Lancaster wins. Annie will surely be welcomed back into the fold without issue, after all, she is being held hostage here, obviously against her will, not to mention her father is still alive to vouch for her. Madge’s situation is far more problematic.

Her mother has married Haymitch, the King will no doubt count that as a betrayal of the highest order. Their only hope is to convince the King that they have suffered greatly, have been forced into this arrangement and abused for it. She thinks about starving herself, burning her gowns, beating her skin until it turns black. The King will not believe anything she says, if she cannot show him she was mistreated, he will never forgive her.

It is not a particular appealing prospect, but if it’s a choice between that and survival, Madge knows which one she’d choose.

* * *

 

News does not reach them until November.

A messengers canters into the courtyard, the punishing rainstorm making it impossible to discern whose badge he’s wearing. He drips a puddle in the entrance hall as her mother takes the letter from him, Madge’s whole body swollen with anxious desperation.

_Please, let my prayers be answered_

Her mother reads it without a single flutter of emotion and Madge thinks she might vomit, so powerful is the panicked curiosity inside her.

“Mother?” she asks, her voice stretched and stressed.

“We are to go to London. Lord Haymitch wishes us to join him at Baynard’s Castle.”

_no_

_we lost_

_why do we always lose?_

* * *

 

The only positive Madge can find is that Baynard’s is not a royal palace, belongs solely to Haymitch. At least they’re not headed to court. Madge clings to that thought as their carriage trundles through the countryside, squeezes it between her hands.

(of course, if they’re going to London, a trip to court can’t be far off)

* * *

 

It is a fairly mild day for November when they arrive, but to Madge it feels as if a hulking black cloud has covered the sky, blotting out the sun.

Haymitch and Marvel are awaiting them as they roll up to Baynard’s and Madge knows it’s time to don her mask, smiling and so happy to be reunited. Haymitch helps her mother down and Marvel extends his hand to Madge, his smile curdling her stomach. She takes it and does not wince when he squeezes her fingers and then tucks them into the crook of his arm, pulling her much too close to his side. He leads her inside, just behind Haymitch and her mother and Madge is dying to know what happened up north.

“I have asked you to come to London because my cousins are getting married,” Haymitch tells them and Madge bites her lip. _Cousins? Does that mean all the rumors about Katniss and Gale are true?_

“Rory is going to marry the Duke of Suffolk’s daughter and Vick, the Earl of Pembroke’s,” he continues and Madge blinks. _Oh. They are very young though, aren’t they? They can’t be more than twelve and ten. Then again, maybe it’s better this way. They won’t be expected to live together for several years yet, which will give them plenty of time to get to know each other. If I was married off tomorrow, I’d be expected to be a true wife to him in every way, even if he were a complete stranger._

“How wonderful,” her mother says and Madge nods along in agreement. _Katniss is shoring up her alliances, using her cousins to solidify bonds of loyalty._

“Yes, it is,” Haymitch agrees, sounding weary. “Before the wedding though, there will be an investment ceremony. The Queen will be bestowing a title on both of them.”

Madge barely restrains her frown. _Back to Westminster already?_

“The court is currently at Windsor, so we’ll be heading there in a few days.”

Madge breathes a silent sigh of relief.

 “Yes, but that’s not all we’re celebrating,” Marvel cuts in with a boast and _this is it_.

“More glad tidings?” her mother asks and Haymitch frowns even as Marvel smirks.

“Indeed. Coriolanus is right now in our custody, languishing in the Tower.”

Madge’s mouth drops open and Marvel nods, puffing out his chest.

“He invaded with help from Scotland, but Father and I made quick work of his forces. Now the false king is ours. Those that escaped, including Enobaria and their bastard Cato, have fled to France.”

Madge feels as if she is drifting out to sea. _King Coriolanus captured? No, it can’t be._

_They’ve cut the head right off of Lancaster._

“Bastard?” she asks, desperate to grip onto something solid. Marvel opens his mouth to answer but Haymitch quickly cuts him off.

“Enough Marvel, this is not talk for women.”

“Of course,” Marvel agrees, properly chastised and Madge can feel curiosity burn in her like the sun. _What does he mean by bastard? He can’t possibly… Cato is now our only hope, as horrifying a thought as that is. We need him._

_This is a disaster._

* * *

 

Madge recognizes Marvel as her best chance at getting information and duly seeks him out. He smiles when she finds him, eyes shining like two perfect emeralds. He opens his arms.

“Ah Madge, how I have missed you.”

Madge stops short of entering his embrace, curious, but not quite that curious.

“Yes, it is lovely to see you again. But what did you mean about Cato being a bastard?”

Marvel frowns.

“My father was right, that is not appropriate talk for women.”

Madge steels herself and then steps closer, placing a hand on his chest.

“Oh, but I’m ever so curious,” she says, looking up at him. His face melts into a grin and he wraps an arm around her, holding her securely against him.

“Well, there are rumors, ones I’m inclined to favour, that Cato is not actually the son of Coriolanus.”

Madge’s eyes go wide.

“What?”

“It took them years to have a child and one cannot blame Enobaria for being less than impressed with her ancient husband. Perhaps he is not even capable anymore,” Marvel chuckles and Madge frowns.

“But who…?”

“Who else? Brutus, the once Duke of Somerset, of course. He is well known as the Queen’s favourite.”

Madge feels the shock reverberate through her. True or not, the Yorkists will encourage these rumors to flourish. It can only help them if people begin to lose faith in the legitimacy of the line of Lancaster. With the King in custody, Cato will be the focus point of rebellion but if the Yorkists can undermine him without lifting a sword…then what?

_The rebels turn to Mother. She’s next, isn’t she?_

_This changes everything._

* * *

 

Lying awake that night, Madge ponders the future.

_If only I could find some way to discredit these rumors or stamp them out, but how?_

_I don’t want to be heir to the throne. We are too vulnerable as is, we cannot afford any more dangers. But what can I do?_

_I cannot rely on kings or princes or knights, if I want to make it out of this alive, I have only myself._

(and never has Madge felt quite so lonely as she does right now)

* * *

 

_I will win Gale’s heart_

_He is the Queen’s most trusted man, if I have him, I’ll be safe_

_(he owes me, they all do)_

_I will spread rumors of my own_

_If I can convince the people that Cato is truly the King’s son, they will not think to rally around Mother and me_

_(he is definitely the King’s heir in cruelty)_

_I will free the King_

_If I can get him out, the rebels with have their leader back and the Yorkists will be on the defensive_

_(but how does one rescue a king?)_

_I’ll find way, I have to. I don’t have a choice_

* * *

 

Madge wears a new dress to Rory and Vick’s ceremony, red velvet and gold silk, determined to look her very best. Annie winds her hair into a complicated set of braids and rubies, glittering jewels dotting her wrists, ears, neck and gown. She slaps her cheeks pink and affects her most charming smile, armed and ready to face her prey.

When they arrive at Windsor, Marvel escorts her to the ceremony, swaggering about as if he owns the place. Madge ensures that she has perfect posture and graceful steps, can’t afford a single mistake. Gale of Salisbury won’t go down easy, she knows that, and he is the very first step in her loose plan to take back England for Lancaster. She has no hope of rescuing the King alone, but if she can charm Gale, if she can win him over, she will have more power than almost anyone in England. He is the kingdom’s Lord Constable, charged with its safety and defense, he knows every one of Katniss’ secrets and he is one of the chief Yorkists. With him, Madge could do anything.

_I’m coming for you Gale, are you ready?_

(and she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a tiny part of her that relishes the idea of having power over Gale, of someone else being the powerless one)

Marvel helps her to the front of the hall, where the privileged will stand, and Madge smiles pleasantly at everyone they pass. Her mother and Haymitch soon join them, followed closely by Ladies Hazelle, Posy, Primrose and the Duchess Elizabeth. Madge bows her head to them, demurely keeps her eyes down and finally the trumpets sound, the honoured making their appearance.

The Queen leads the procession, dressed in a stately blue gown and a gold mantle trimmed with ermine. She wears a gilded crown and everyone watches as she makes her way to the front of the room, settling in her throne with a stiff back. Then comes the Salisbury boys, Rory and Vick dressed in their very best. Rory looks smart in black velvet woven through with silver while Vick shines in white and gold. Gale follows behind them, his pride making him glow. Madge makes sure to keep her eyes on him as he stands just a step behind the Queen’s throne, hopes her expression is suitably admiring. She doesn’t listen to Katniss’ words, acts as if she is far too enamored of the Queen’s handsome cousin to pay attention. Part way through the ceremony, Gale must feel her eyes on him, for he turns, a confused expression on his face. Their gazes meet for just a moment and then Madge drops hers as if in embarrassment. She looks over at him from the corner of her eye and offers him a shy smile, his brows furrowing.

Gale drags his eyes away when Katniss wraps up the investment ceremony, declaring that Rory is now the Marquess of Dorset and Vick the Marquess of Montagu. Katniss stands, horns blaring again, and leaves, Rory, Vick and Gale following after her. Madge watches Gale bashfully, mulling this new information over in her mind. As Marquesses, Gale’s brothers technically outrank him, even though in practice he is more powerful than any Duke in England save Haymitch. But still, why give the younger Hawthornes such illustrious titles?

Unless, of course, Queen Katniss has something even grander planned for her favourite cousin.

But what?

* * *

 

When she retires that night, Annie is waiting with gossip and rumours gathered from the hallways.

“I’ve heard whispers, that the Queen didn’t just bestow titles on her cousins, but castles too.”

“Oh?” Madge asks, unwinding her hair. Annie nods.

“Corfe Castle in Dorset and Rufus Castle on the Isle of Portland for the new Marquess of Dorset and for his brother, Somerton Castle in Lincolnshire and Gloucester Castle in Gloucestershire.”

Madge bites her lip.

_Didn’t Haymitch say something about honouring those whose loyalties were not yet guaranteed? I think this might be doing quite the opposite._

_Good_

* * *

 

The weddings follow a week later.

Madge dons the same silver gown she wore to her mother’s wedding and knows today will be the perfect opportunity to get a foothold on Gale. He is confused certainly, uncertain of her intentions, but that’s not enough. If she wants him to love her, she must go on the offensive.

It is to be a double wedding held in Windsor’s chapel and Madge takes her seat at the front, sandwiched in between Marvel and her mother. Katniss has a special seat reserved for her, gilded and cushioned with velvet. It reeks of King Coriolanus, this overt display of power and luxury in God’s very own house. Katniss sits in it gingerly and Gale takes the seat right beside her, looking handsome in blue velvet, his chains of office glittering around his neck.

(and that is one thing Madge supposes she should be glad about, that Gale is, without a doubt, a handsome boy)

(if she must woo him, at least he is not ancient or hideous)

Vick and Rory stand at the front of the chapel, awaiting their brides and Madge almost smiles at the sight of them. They wear matching doublets of creamy velvet with fine gold embroidery and white rose badges made up of pearls and gold pinned to the front.  They each have a gold circlet on their head, but while Vick looks excited by what’s to come, fidgeting anxiously and bouncing from foot to foot, Rory does a very poor job of concealing his scowl. They’re both so young and she could almost laugh at their opposite reactions. Instead, she looks wistfully over at Gale until the music starts, the two young brides making their appearance.

The Duke of Suffolk escorts his daughter Philippa up the aisle and she looks about Rory’s age, with dark brown hair and a pretty blue gown offset with gold and decorated with jewels. A proudly smiling Earl of Pembroke leads his daughter Petronella, her red hair contrasting oddly with her yellow dress. She might be eight or nine and both girls are handed off to their grooms, the vows they pronounce sounding strange in their child voices. The ceremony ends and Rory kisses Philippa so quickly Madge almost misses it, but poor Vick is so nervous he lands his kiss just beside Petronella’s nose instead of on her lips. His face burns red and Madge winces _. Poor Vick._

Both couples make their way out of the chapel and soon everyone joins them, a lavish feast awaiting them. Madge is not given a seat at the head table this time, but she does not mind. This way she has a better vantage point to observe Gale and she sends him many a longing look, hoping the court gossips pick up on it and spread the story as far and wide as they can. _Let everyone know just how infatuated I am with the handsome Earl of Salisbury._ She can tell by his posture that Gale’s noticed her gaze but he does not acknowledge it until dessert, the servers bringing out individual roses made of marchpane for every guest. He finally looks away from Katniss and over at Madge, who does her best to appear both pleased and nervous. She bites her lip, tucks hair behind her ear and Gale watches her with narrowed eyes, entirely unsure what to make of her.

_So far, so good_

And then comes the dancing. As usual, Madge suffers through the first with Marvel, his roving hands touching her in all sorts of places they shouldn’t. She tries to ignore it and focuses on the newlyweds, Rory dancing stiffly with a disinterested Philippa and Vick looking down at his feet rather than at Petronella. She smiles faintly before being handed over to Haymitch for the second dance and forces herself to be as pleasant as possible. She dances once each with the two fathers of the brides and then the Duke of Buckingham for the group dance. He is young, perhaps only a year older than her, with a charming smile and very red hair. He is a much better dancer than the Earl of Pembroke and Madge spins around with a laugh, eyes seeking out Gale as she twirls. He is sitting beside Katniss, having only danced the first three dances with his mother and two new sisters-in-law. Madge notices with a thrill of victory that he is watching her and she beams at him, hoping to entice him onto the floor with her.

Vick partners her next, anxious and stumbly and then she’s given to a nervous Thom who refuses to look her in the eye. Madge peeks over at Gale and he’s still watching her, expression inscrutable. _Dance with me Gale, dance with me_ she thinks and maybe he hears those thoughts as he murmurs to Katniss and then stands, heading out onto the floor. _Finally!_ she cheers internally as the dance ends and Gale walks up to her as she curtsies to Thom.

“May I have this dance, Lady Madge?” he asks, voice devoid of any warmth but Madge will not be deterred so easily.

“Yes, of course Lord Gale. I would be delighted,” she answers, suffusing her words with as much joy as she can muster. The music begins and they move well together, their dance not nearly as stiff and awkward as last time. Gale still does not look at her and keeps a healthy distance between them, but progress is still progress.

“I’ve never been to Windsor before, have you?” she asks, somewhat breathless from all the dancing.

“No,” he answers shortly and Madge nods, not at all off put by his standoffish manner.

“I do hope they have a garden here, you know what a big fan I am,” she laughs and Gale continues to look at a point just above her head.

“There is,” he says, “my sister’s dragged me around it many times already. She’s quite impressed.”

Madge gasps and smiles.

“Perhaps you could give me a tour?” she asks excitedly, looking up at him through her lashes. He hesitates, clearly trying to think of an excuse to refuse and Madge leans in a little, their bodies nearly brushing.

“If you’re busy, I could ask Lord Haymitch,” she says with a disappointed sigh, lips pulling down in a pout. He tenses, perhaps the thought of Haymitch reprimanding him for a lack of gallantry filling his mind, and then deflates.

“I suppose I could,” he agrees and she beams, squeezing his hand. He grimaces in his attempt to smile back and Madge is flushed with victory.

_Check_

_Your move Gale of Salisbury_

* * *

 

(Gale doesn’t quite understand it, but he finds himself watching Madge of Bedford, his eyes following her whenever she’s in the room. She’s pretty yes, he can’t deny that, but there are plenty of pretty girls at court. Why can’t he look away from _her_? She’s the enemy, a traitor, a _Lancastrian_. It doesn’t matter that her dresses always highlight the curves of her waist, it doesn’t matter how well she dances or how she tosses her hair, that bright and shimmering gold.

He hates her, he _does_.

Often, he finds her watching him back, but she always looks away when he catches her, biting her lip and smiling shyly. He can feel that traitorous tug in his stomach, finds his eyes lingering on her mouth and curses himself. No matter how his body responds, his mind knows the truth. She is up to something, she has to be. There’s no other reason she’d be showing so much interest in him lately. She can’t possibly…she doesn’t, no. It’s impossible.

She may flutter her eyelashes at him and her laughter might be bright and easy, but Gale won’t be fooled. She can smile at him all she wants, can look at him with blue eyes like the summer sky, but he won’t fall into her trap.

Madge of Bedford is dangerous. She has Coriolanus’ blood in her veins, Gale will not forget that.

He can’t)

* * *

 

Madge takes special care the day of her meeting with Gale, carefully considers every item of clothing and the style of her hair.

She settles on her pink dress with the golden rose pattern and Annie does her hair, leaving most of it hanging free except for at the very back of her head, where she weaves in a chain of pink and gold roses. It is cold out but not too cold, so she dons one of her lighter cloaks, the fabric pale purple with silver birds embroidered at the hem.

Annie is clearly suspicious as Madge holds several earrings to her ear before choosing a pair of pretty gold baubles, but Madge does not answer her silent question. She doesn’t know why she’s so reluctant to tell Annie what she’s planning, but it’s like there’s a wall inside of her, forcing her to keep this a secret.

Madge has noticed Gale watching her in the halls, has felt his gaze and she can feel a thrill dance across her skin every time it happens. He does not like her, certainly, but just as she has been forced to admit that he is quite handsome, with his broad shoulders, strong jaw and stunning eyes, so it appears that Gale, quite against his will, admires her looks as well. Madge has never thought of herself as overly beautiful, not even when Marvel waxes poetic about her looks, but Gale’s reluctant interest has kindled a fire in her bones. She is no fool, she knows the surest way to a man’s love is by first capturing his lust and if Gale thinks her pretty, she is that much closer to her ultimate victory. They dab her with rosewater and Madge takes a pair of gloves just in case.

“Well, I’m off then,” she says with faux cheeriness and Annie manages a limp smile. Madge nods and then leaves, unsure why everything about this feels so awkward. _Why can’t I just tell her?_ She shakes her head and heads down to the garden, needs to be focused and ready. She can worry about Annie later.

Gale is waiting for her when she arrives and his posture immediately stiffens when he sees her. _Oh Gale, still as determined as ever to hate me, aren’t you?_ Madge smiles warmly.

“Good day, Sir Gale,” she greets and his face does that odd twitching thing she assumes is his attempt at smiling.

“Hello.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this for days,” she confesses, looking away shyly and he makes a noncommittal noise in his throat.

“Yes well, should we…get started then?” he asks, voice flat as he gestures out at the garden and Madge nods. They head out, a significant gap between them and Madge can’t help but look around in admiration.

“Well…this is the garden,” he offers rather lamely and Madge barely manages not to roll her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she says and Gale shrugs. He points out various flowers, trees and bushes and Madge listens intently, nodding along to his words. She moves a little closer as they walk and Gale either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, but either way, Madge feels a flare of confidence.

“What’s this?” she asks, looking down at a stone cat resting on a bench. Gale makes a face.

“It was a gift for the Queen.”

“Oh?”

He lets out a pained sigh.

“Based on her badge, it’s a cat.”

He sounds genuinely offended and Madge bites her lip.

“Well, I suppose that makes sense, a cat for Katniss,” she laughs and Gale frowns.

“She didn’t choose it for that. Cats mean courage, vigilance and liberty.”

Madge ducks her head in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I don’t know much about heraldry,” she admits and Gale presses his lips together. “Though I wish I knew more, it’s so interesting that every badge has a meaning. I think you can tell a lot about someone by what badge they choose. You can see what they value, or at least, what they want you to think they value.”

Gale blinks.

“You really find it fascinating?”

Madge nods and she’s not even lying.

“I do, I always have. My father had a bell and I always wondered why.”

The words came out without thought and her smile drops, that great wall of grief she always feels when thinking about her father rising up within her. Gale’s jaw tenses. Madge closes her eyes, her misery mixing with the knowledge that she’s just ruined this whole encounter. _Excellent job, our very first attempt and we’ve already blown it._

“It’s said that bells have the power to disperse evil spirits,” Gale says gruffly and Madge looks up at him in surprise. He is determinedly looking in the opposite direction, but Madge feels a smile on her lips. _Perhaps I haven’t ruined anything after all._

“And what does a white rose mean?” she asks, Gale’s posture relaxing just slightly.

“Love and faith, charm and innocence.”

“Hmm. It’s impressive you know all of this by heart.”

Gale shrugs and starts walking again. Madge hurries to keep step.

“Not really, it’s easy to remember. I mean, I’ve always found it…interesting.”

Madge smiles.

“It is that. Alright, what’s your badge then?”

“A two headed eagle.”

_Why does that sound so familiar? Oh! Thom was wearing that, wasn’t he?_

“And what does it mean?” she asks, Gale slowing his pace to match hers. _Good, he’s starting to feel at ease._

“Well, all birds represent home and family. A two headed eagle specifically, means a protector.”

“So family means a lot to you, then?”

Gale stops and finally turns to look at her, the silver oceans of his eyes bright and glowing.

“There’s nothing more important,” he says gravely. “It’s my motto too. _For Justice and Family_.”

“I like that. Most people’s mottos and are all “Glory!” or “For Triumph!” I like that yours has real meaning,” she says softly, looking down bashfully and Gale takes a step back as if alarmed. He clears his throat.

“Yes well, um…”

“Gale! Gale! Gale!”

He and Madge both turn to see little Posy running through the hedges towards them, her harried nurse hurrying after her. Gale softens all over and grins, striding forward to meet his sister. She flings herself at him with a squeal and Gale scoops her up, settling her on his hip. Madge cannot help but stare. This is the Gale she’s only had glimpses of, the Gale without rage or hatred burning bright and hot in his blood. It’s disconcerting.

“You’re in the garden,” Posy accuses and Gale raises an eyebrow.

“I am,” he agrees and Posy pouts.

“You didn’t invite me,” she says and Gale laughs, tweaking her nose.

“How rude of me,” he says and Posy nods fervently.

“You’re mean.”

Her nurse gasps.

“Lady Posy, that is no way to speak to your brother,” she begins but Gale just laughs again.

“I am a bit mean, aren’t I? Well, you’re here now, will you let me make it up to you?”

Posy thinks about it, still glaring at Gale petulantly and that’s when she sees Madge. Her eyes go wide, her unhappiness vanishing.

“Lady Madge!” she calls excitedly and tries to climb out of Gale’s arms. He sets her down, brow furrowed and Madge smiles.

“Hello, Lady Posy,” she says, sweeping into a curtsy. Posy’s face lights up and she drops into her own clumsy curtsy, cheeks pink.

“I want to thank you for that bouquet you gave me a few months ago. It was very beautiful and it made me feel so much better. I told your brother to thank you for me, but I’m so glad I get to do it in person,” Madge says and Posy presses her hands to her cheeks in glee.

“You really liked it?”

“I loved it,” Madge assures her. “And I’m so glad you’re here, it’s always nice to meet someone who loves a garden as much as I do.”

Posy smiles widely.

“I bet you know more about this one than your brother, care to give me a tour?”

Posy nods eagerly and grabs Madge’s hand, dragging her off and already chattering a thousand miles a second. Madge can feel Gale’s eyes on her as they walk away and she turns back slightly to see him. He’s staring at her, expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. But there’s something else, small and barely visible, that tells Madge she has a chance. There’s a softening in Gale’s eyes, just slightly, ever so slightly, eroding his ever present loathing.

_I’ve got you now Gale, you just don’t know it yet_

* * *

 

( _She’s using Posy to get to me, she has to be._

Gale tells himself that over and over again, until the very thought is imprinted against his skull.

 _She’s a liar and Posy doesn’t matter to her at all_.

But still, there’s that tiny, tiny, tiny part of him that says _what if she isn’t?_ Gale doesn’t bother to answer that part of him, because the answer is obvious.

 _She is_ )

(she has to be, because how he could he hate someone who made Posy smile like that?)

(he couldn’t)

* * *

 

“I have a special request to make of you.”

Madge looks up at Haymitch in surprise and quails at the serious look on his face. _What could he possibly want from me?_

“You may not know this, but currently, the Queen’s only lady-in-waiting is her sister Primrose.”

Madge frowns. She hadn’t known that. That was an odd choice wasn’t it? After all, queens were usually served by the relatives of England’s most powerful men and Katniss, as a new monarch who’d won her crown by war and as the first queen regnant, could certainly use all the allies she could get. But by not giving these coveted positions to the wives, sisters and daughters of England’s leading men, she was pushing away allies, instead of gaining them. What was she doing?

“I have managed to convince Her Majesty to allow you to serve her,” Haymitch continues and Madge’s eyes widen.

“I am honoured,” she says automatically and all she can think is _it can’t be worse than being Queen Enobaria’s lady_.

_(I hope)_

“Yes, well, that is not all. I would like you, as the Queen’s new lady, to encourage her to accept more ladies into her household. There are many women from noble families that would serve her very well, if only she would allow them.”

There is an edge to Haymitch’s voice and it’s obvious he doesn’t agree with Katniss’ decision to shut out the ladies of court. Just like Madge, he must realize the damage this is doing to their cause. Clearly, he has tried to get her to change her mind, so why is she so adamant?

“I will do my very best, Lord Haymitch, I promise.”

Haymitch nods and he must be very desperate if he’s willing to turn to her for help.

_What is Katniss doing?_

* * *

 

Madge takes a deep breath before knocking on Katniss’ door.

“Come in,” the Queen’s voice calls and Madge squares her shoulders before entering. Katniss is sitting by the window while Lady Primrose embroiders and Madge drops into a deep curtsy.

“Welcome, Lady Madge,” Primrose says cheerily and Madge stays where she is, awaiting the Queen’s command to rise.

“Thank you, Lady Primrose,” she replies, “it is an honour to be here.”

“Prim, you must call me Prim. We are family now, after all. And please stand up.”

Madge hesitates for a moment, unsure what to do.

“Yes, please stand,” Katniss says, tone somewhat dull. Madge rises.

“Thank you for allowing me to serve you, your Majesty. I will endeavor to do my very best.”

“I am sure you will,” Katniss says quietly, looking back down at the stack of documents in her lap. Madge blinks. _Well, Haymitch did force me on her, it isn’t surprising she’s less than enthusiastic about it._ Prim gestures her over and Madge goes, settling down on a seat beside her.

“I am so happy you’re here, it’s a lot of work, being the Queen’s only lady.”

Madge nods, remembering the many ladies Queen Enobaria had attending to her.

“I am happy to be of help,” she says and Prim smiles, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

“We shall make a good team, you and I, I can tell.”

_If you could read my mind, I doubt you’d think that_

Madge merely smiles in response, her heart squeezing.

_(I wonder, would I be the villain in your story?)_

* * *

 

A few days later, Madge is alone in Katniss’ chambers when Gale arrives.

“Hey, Katniss are you-oh.”

Madge turns at the sound of his voice. Gale stands half in the room and half out, his hand still holding the door. She smiles and nods to him while Gale quickly tries to turn his look of disappointment into something a little friendlier.

(he does a dismal job)

“Is Katni-” he clears his throat, “Is the Queen here?”

Madge shakes her head.

“She was, but Lord Haymitch had some matter of great importance to discuss.”

Gale frowns.

“We were supposed to go hunting.”

Madge nods and gestures at the outfit she’d been laying out on Katniss’ bed.

“I know. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

Gale runs a hand through his hair.

“Right.”

He rocks on his feet, never quite looking at her and it’s obvious he doesn’t want to stay here with her, might leave and wait for Katniss somewhere else. Madge can’t afford to let that happen, can’t squander this opportunity.

“Do you like archery?” she asks, noticing the bow in his hand. He stares at her coldly.

“I wouldn’t hunt with bow and arrow if I didn’t,” he says and Madge barely keeps her smile on. _Did your parents never teach you any manners? I really thought we’d made some progress last time…but wait. Maybe we did. Maybe this rudeness is your attempt to compensate for the fact that you don’t really hate me as much as you think you should._

_(at least I hope so)_

“Perhaps not. I could tell how much the Queen adores it when she spoke of it earlier, it could very well be that you only partake in archery because the Queen enjoys it so.”

Gale turns away to stare out the window.

“I enjoy it just fine,” he says but then his face starts to soften, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Though I’m not nearly as good as she is, of course. No one is.”

Madge narrows her eyes for a moment and can’t help but wonder if those rumors she’d heard about Gale and Katniss had any truth to them. That is a complication she cannot afford. After all, how is she meant to compete with a queen?

“Well, you must be very good or I doubt the Queen would want you as a partner.”

Gale’s face hardens again and he shrugs.

“I don’t much like hunting,” she says and Gale rolls his eyes, “but I think I would like to learn archery.”

He turns to look at her with skepticism.

“ _You_ want to learn archery?”

“Is that really so surprising, Lord Salisbury?” she asks with a smile and Gale spends a moment chewing on his words before seemingly deciding it would be wiser to say nothing. _See, we’ve definitely made progress. You never would have shied away from insulting me before._

“Will you go hunting again tomorrow?” she asks and he shakes his head.

“No.”

“Too busy?”

“No, I always make sure to have some time off in the afternoon, lest I go insane.”

Madge nods and then looks down, fingers fidgeting in her skirt.

“Would you…I wouldn’t want to be a bother, but…well, would you be willing to teach me?”

Gale blinks at her.

“It’s just the Queen clearly sets good store by your skills and I cannot imagine there could be any better teacher,” she hurries to continue, peeking up at him shyly.

“You want me to teach you archery?” Gale repeats slowly, as if he must’ve misheard. She nods and Gale shakes his head in disbelief.

He’s already told her he’s available tomorrow, to change his mind now would be an obvious slight. A little while ago, Madge is certain he wouldn’t have cared in the slightest about offending her, but things have changed now. Katniss has been trying hard to convince the rest of the world that Madge and her mother are fully entrenched on the Yorkist side, she would not take kindly to Gale threatening that illusion. Furthermore, Madge has been working hard to chip away at Gale’s rage, even if just a little. She knows he does not like her still, knows he does not trust her, but that’s fine. All she needs is for him to loathe her a little less, to see her and think _person I hate_ rather than _enemy_. Madge is more than willing to play the long game.

He sighs.

“I suppose I could.”

Madge beams and curtsies.

“Thank you, Sir Gale, thank you.”

He grimaces.

“Yes, well, my…pleasure.”

_It will be Gale, I intend to make sure of it._

* * *

 

(She _is_ up to something, she has to be.

 Madge has wormed her way into their lives, has somehow even tricked Haymitch into nominating her for a position in Katniss’ household. Whatever power she wields, Gale will not succumb to it. The others may have fallen for her beauty and charm, but Gale will not be so easy.

Marvel may be smitten and Haymitch may think her a dutiful step-daughter, Prim might think her friendly and sweet while Katniss finds her competent and Posy may adore her, but Gale knows better. He can see through Madge of Bedford, all her pretty smiles and perfect manners.

She is a Lancastrian and they never change)

(but should resisting her really be this hard?)

* * *

 

Gale stays true to his word and brings her out to the archery fields, the weather crisp and clear. He demonstrates his own skills first and Madge is genuinely impressed.

“You’re quite good,” she tells him and he shakes his head.

“Katniss has me beat, easily,” he laughs, always more at ease when Katniss is the topic. “Do you want to try?

Madge nods and moves towards him.

“Alright,” he says, “have you ever done this before?”

She shakes her head. Gale nods and hands her the bow before moving around behind her to help her position her arms. He is very close, chest occasionally brushing her back, but she does not feel nearly as uncomfortable as she does when she’s with Marvel. But maybe that’s because Gale is merely trying to help and not making any attempt to grope her inappropriately.

“See, you have to tilt it slightly, not too much, just a bit, there. No, no, hand a little higher, bend your elbow. Not entirely, just a little. Hold it…see? Like this. Good. Alright, I think you might as well give it a try.”

Gale steps back and Madge takes a calming breath. _Eyes on the target, you’ve got this._ She pulls back the string and releases, her arrow going only a few feet before sinking into the grass. She frowns.

“Well, that was awful.”

“It was your first try, it could have gone worse.”

Madge rolls her eyes.

“Oh, well that’s good to hear. I was terrible, but not as terrible as I could have been. What glowing praise,” she teases and Gale looks at her in surprise, eyebrows slightly raised. He laughs, just once, and then stops suddenly as if shocked by himself. Madge smiles.

“Well,” Gale says, clearing his throat. “Maybe you should try again.”

Madge nods and takes her position. She fires and her arrow goes slightly farther, still falling well short of the target. She frowns.

“Here,” Gale says, coming towards her, “you’re grip isn’t quite right.”

Madge nods and hands him the bow.

“Hold this, will you? I think it’s these gloves, my fingers are too stiff.”

She pulls them off and Gale frowns.

“You could get calluses,” he says and Madge shrugs.

“Better calluses than continual failure, right?”

Gale blinks and then almost smiles, something a little like the beginning of admiration in his eyes.

“Right.”

Madge takes back the bow, assuming position and Gale stares at her hands. At first she thinks he’s just focused on her form, but there’s something else in that look, a question he’s unsure if he should ask.

“Am I doing this right?” she asks and he shakes himself.

“Yes, yes, it’s fine. I was just…you’re always wearing the same three rings,” he says and Madge is surprised he noticed, a hot splash of victory crashing inside of her.

“Most ladies change it up,” he continues somewhat lamely, as if trying to justify his observation. Madge bites her lip and looks down at her hands

“Well, they’re the only ones I brought with me when we left home.”

“I’m sure Haymitch would buy you more, if you wanted.”

“I don’t though, want anymore. These three are special.”

Gale is clearly surprised and Madge smiles wryly. _Did you think I was some sort of greedy witch, planning on bleeding Haymitch dry? Which is funny, since half his money is mine._

“This one,” she says, indicating the ruby ring on her left hand, “is from my grandmother, Princess Cecilie of Norway. I never met her, she died before I was born. But I have this, not just to remember her by, but to remember my royal roots, the king’s blood running through my veins.”

“I didn’t know about your grandmother,” he says, sounding slightly uncomfortable and Madge almost smiles. _Does it worry you, that I’m more royal than your Queen?_ Madge stares at her other two rings and knows she should make up a story, something fluffy about how she thought they were pretty. The truth could ruin everything, could thrust her right into the fire. _Lie, you have to lie_.

(she won’t)

“This was a present from the Earl of Huntingdon, Henry,” she says and holds up her right pinky so Gale can see it. He stares at it and blanches, clearly recognizing Henry’s name.

_What are you doing? Stop!_

“I was going to marry him,” she continues, voice growing a little harder, “this was a token of his esteem. Of course, we never did marry. Rebels made sure of that.”

Gale stiffens, hands balling into fists.

“He chose to fight,” he says, voice taut and Madge snorts.

“He was _fourteen_ and he had no weapon. But you’re right, he did choose to fight. He chose to fight for his King. At least he died with honour.”

Gale steps back, face so shocked she could have slapped him and Madge takes advantage of his stunned silence to keep going, heedless of the danger she’s putting herself in.

“And this one was a gift from my father, when I was a child. It’s all I have left of him.”

She glares at Gale as she says it, his ire climbing with very word.

“He was a traitor! You should not want to remember him,” he explodes, voice savage enough to draw blood.

“A traitor?” Madge shouts back, hysteria mixing in with her fury. “How is it treason to fight for your sovereign? To honour the oaths you made to him and to God? It is _your_ father that died a traitor!”

(Madge is honestly surprised Gale doesn’t strike her, she knows most in his position would)

“How dare you,” he whispers, voice frigid. His whole body shakes, an angry red creeping up his neck. “My father died to free this country of a tyrant!”

“Your father died fighting his king! He broke his oath and plunged this country into chaos. He betrayed us all.”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything! My father was a hero! He fought to save us, would you really celebrate those that wanted to keep someone as evil as Coriolanus on the throne?”

Madge laughs and shakes her head.

“You ignorant fool. You think you hate the king? You don’t know hate.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hate King Coriolanus far more than you could _ever_. You never walked his halls in terror, you never watched him execute someone and laugh, you never smiled and curtsied all while knowing he held your life in his hands and would love watching you suffer.”

Gale stares at her with a mixture of horror and outrage but Madge cannot stop, feels almost insane from the anger pounding in her ears.

“You never cursed his every breath as you sat in his hall, never prayed the ceiling would collapse on both your heads so you could be rid of him. Prince Cato never beat you to the floor because you dared to suggest going into Sanctuary. The King did not abandon you and your mother to the Yorkist hordes. Did you ever wonder if you were going to Hell for hating him, did you ever cry yourself to sleep because you thought it an utter betrayal to think him evil?”

Tears start to blur her vision, but still she goes on, years of pent up feelings spewing out of her, her voice rising in pitch and gaining momentum.

“I hate him. I hate him for taking my father from me, for ruining this country, for his wickedness, his cruelty, for abandoning us after everything we did for him. I hate him for the murder and the bloodshed and the fear. I hate him, I hate him because I knew him. Did you know him, Gale? Did you talk with him and walk with him and serve his wife? Did he haunt your every dream and waking moment? Did he reach into your home and drag your father away? Did he make your mother sick and frail? Are you suffering now, still punished for his evil deeds? Because I am.”

She can barely breathe, chest heaving and Gale looks at her in complete disbelief.

“And yet, you still think your father a good man? After supporting a king like that?”

“The best of men. He would have fought for the Yorkists, had he a chance. But he did not. How can you blame men for following their oaths? How can you blame them for remaining loyal? It is all fine and well to call yourselves heroes now, but _you_ were the traitors, _you_ were the rebels. The men of England swore before God to support King Coriolanus. How can you hate them for doing just that? If you had lost, they would have died-”

“Better to die for freedom, than live for oppression,” Gale interrupts and he means it, face set and determined. Madge wants to laugh, wants to cry, could almost admire his convictions if her heart wasn’t seething with rage soaked despair.

“And what of their families? The King wouldn’t have spared anyone. They would lose everything and then their wives and children would have died gruesomely, horrifically. For someone who claims to believe so highly in the bonds of family, you are very quick to condemn others for loving theirs.”

Gale opens his mouth to speak but Madge doesn’t give him the chance.

 “And what could my father have done? You would not have welcomed us. The King is my great uncle, you would never have forgiven me that. My parents knew it, knew the King was their only option. And yes, they fought for him. Should I condemn my father? Should I hate him for loving me? Tell me Gale, what would you have done, if your father had chosen the King?”

“He wouldn’t have. He never would have.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispers, heart aching. “I’ll give you the moral victory, Gale, if that’s what you want. Lord knows that the House of Lancaster is rotted to the core. But I will never, _ever_ give you my father’s memory. He was a good man, a better one than you could ever hope to be. Hate me Gale, report me to Haymitch and the Queen, lock me away in the Tower forever. I don’t care. But don’t you _ever_ speak ill of my father again.”

She can barely see Gale through her tears and Madge turns, rage and heartbreak weaving through her like a million tiny needles, sewing their suffering into her skin.

_I hate you Gale, I hate you so much_

Madge runs, flees, gasping for breath she cannot find.

_I will never, ever forgive you_

* * *

 

(Gale watches Madge leave and feels as if the world has tilted sideways.

No one has ever spoken to him like that, not once in his life.

He is supposed to hate her, despise her and yet, in this moment, he thinks he might just understand her. The pain in her voice when she spoke of her father, he can feel it echoing in his bones, mingling with his own still aching grief. What _would_ he have done if his father had chosen Coriolanus? Could he really have turned against him?

He never would have dreamed that she could hate Coriolanus so much, never would’ve thought she would admit to wanting him dead. He believes her too, knows no one could fake that level of loathing, that fear he could still hear as she spoke of him, the fury crackling through her voice.

_What the hell is going on?_

Madge of Bedford is supposed to be the enemy. She’s a Lancastrian, she supports that monster Coriolanus, Christ, she’s related to him! He cannot empathize with her. He _can’t_. She is everything he despises in the world, but as he stares at the empty space she once stood in, he is having a hard time remembering why.

_She’s the reason Father’s dead._

_Is she? She didn’t fight at Wakefield, she didn’t order her forces to mass there and attack. Coriolanus is the enemy as are his lackeys, like Brutus of Somerset. Madge was sitting at home the whole war. What exactly did she do that was so terrible?_

_She… she wanted Coriolanus to win!_

_Of course she did, her father fought on that side._

_That’s not an excuse, Coriolanus is a monster, any decent person would support his overthrow._

_At the cost of their family? Would I have, if I was in her position?_

Gale has never known such turmoil. All Lancastrians are evil, he’s always known that. He’s been raised on the stories of Coriolanus’ atrocities, the cruelties inflicted by his supporters.

 _Madge never supported any of that. She stood with Lancaster because she had no choice, because of blood and love for her parents_.

_We did the right thing. We’re not the bad guys. We did what we did for all of England._

_Maybe, but you know not everyone on our side was a saint. You were horrified when you heard about Henry Holland, weren’t you? You condemned the men that terrorized Ludlow, all the rapes and murder. If we were the good guys but there were still bad apples on our side, doesn’t it stand to reason that though they were the bad guys, there might still have been good people on their side?_

For months now, Gale has been looking at Madge and seeing the enemy, a liar, a coward. But what if she’s none of those things? It took courage to shout at him like that, to admit to her anger and hatred. He can’t blame her for wanting to protect her father’s memory, can he? He would do the same. As for supporting Lancaster…maybe she’s right. Would they have accepted her and her family onto their side? Would they have trusted her, as closely related to the King as she is?

_You don’t trust her now, so why would you have then?_

Just like him, she holds the other side responsible for her father’s death but unlike him, Madge has at least made an effort to be friendly. Maybe she wasn’t up to something all these months, maybe she was trying to move on.

And maybe, it’s time Gale did too)

* * *

 

Madge runs into her room, slamming the door with so much force Annie jumps in her chair.

“Madge?” she questions, sounding worried but Madge ignores her, rushing into her bedchamber and flinging herself onto the bed. She presses her face into her pillow, her tears soaking into the fabric. _Well, that’s it then. I’ve officially ruined everything. Gale will certainly never love me now. I’m sorry Mother, Annie, Father. It looks like I won’t be avenging us after all._

“Madge?” Annie asks again, settling down beside her. “What is it, what’s the matter?”

Madge can’t answer, feels the weight of her failure pushing down on her. _What was I supposed to do? Let him attack Henry and Father? They were good people, how I could stand by and let him say those things about them?_

Madge is so caught up in her thoughts she doesn’t notice Annie leaving, not until she returns, voice concerned.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she says and Madge forces her head up.

“Who?”

“The Earl of Salisbury.”

Madge blinks. _Come to insult me some more?_ She feels a spiteful urge build inside of her and rises, not bothering to clean her face, after all, she has no reason to try and impress him now. Annie looks at her in surprise but Madge moves past her into the next room where Gale is waiting. He turns at her entrance and winces. _That ugly am I?_

“Would you give us a moment, Annie?” she asks and Annie frowns before curtsying.

“Of course, my lady,” she says and returns to Madge’s bedchamber, closing the door behind her. Madge does not say anything; she merely looks at Gale, wringing his hat in his hands. The silence is painful but Madge is in no mood to be helpful. If Gale has something to say, he can say it.

“I came here to…apologize.”

Gale won’t look at her and Madge feels her eyes go perfectly round.

“You did?”

He nods.

“Yes. What I said earlier, that wasn’t very fair. I realize now that I’ve been blaming you for a lot of things you had no part in. You did not fight in the war; you did not take my father from me. I have spent a very long time hating Lancaster, but you are not Lancaster,” he says and Madge nods.

 “No, I’m not.”

“You’re right about Henry Holland, I was horrified about what happened to him. He was just a boy. He shouldn’t have died. You’re right to be angry about that, we should all be angry about that.”

Madge feels her heart lurch and squeezes Henry’s ring around her finger. Gale takes a deep breath and nods.

“I understand how it feels to lose a father; I cannot blame you for missing yours. I didn’t know him and I will never agree with supporting Coriolanus, but…I can understand why he might have done what he did. I don’t know what I would have done in his position, but I cannot fault him for trying to keep his family safe. I shouldn’t have said what I said about him, I’m sorry, Lady Madge. I am sorry too, that I have not made you welcome these last few months. I’ve always said that we fought this war to liberate England, but here I am, treating you like a pariah. I can’t take any of it back, but I hope to do better in the future.” He pauses, thinks for a moment and then nods again. “I should thank you for opening my eyes, Lady Madge. I have been very determined to hate you, to blame you, but I realize now I was out of line.”

He bows and Madge bites her lip, her chest feeling uncomfortably tight. _How strange to have a Yorkist apologize. I feel like I’m dreaming._

“Yes you were,” she agrees, wiping at the smudges around her eyes. Gale nods, head still downturned and Madge feels oddly light as her rage drains away. “But so was I.”

Gale looks up in surprise as she continues.

“I let anger get the best of me. I hope you will forgive me.”

“I do, I have,” he says and even though it’s strange, Madge believes him.

“I’m sure your father was a good man,” she says and Gale nods, finally straightening up.

“He was, thank you. Perhaps…we could return to the archery field another time? I didn’t finish your lesson, after all.”

Madge smiles slowly and nods.

“I would like that, Sir Gale.”

”As would I, Lady Madge.”

(and if Madge feels any guilt, buried deep down inside her, well, that’s a secret she’ll never tell)

* * *

 

“What was that about?” Annie asks after Gale leaves and Madge bites her lip, emotions still shaking.

“Nothing. We had a bit of an argument, but it’s fine now.”

“About what?”

“Nothing, just…he doesn’t think I’m very good at archery.”

Madge smiles faintly and Annie frowns, clearly not believing a word of it. _Why won’t you just tell her the truth? She must hate the Yorkists as much as you do, she’d probably love to hear about them being made to pay._

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Annie asks and Madge smiles, squeezing her hand.

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

Madge sits down and picks up her embroidery, a clear sign that she’s done with this conversation. Annie continues to watch her and again Madge thinks _just tell her._

She doesn’t though, keeps this secret locked up tight.

_Why?_

( _because_ )

* * *

 

The canopy above her bed is dark, shadows dancing across it in the flickering of her bedside candle. Madge stares up at it and wishes she could get comfortable, but there’s something writhing inside of her, an emotion she can’t afford to have.

_This is what I wanted, I can’t fold up now_

She tells herself this over and over, but still guilt stings her nerves and turns to lead in her stomach. Gale’s apology fills her ears, hacking away at her resolve and _he wasn’t supposed to be sorry._

_It doesn’t matter. He can be as sorry as he wants, it doesn’t change who he is._

_He forgave me._

_For what? I did nothing wrong. He did though, he fought in the war, he condemned my father, brought blood and battles to England. I have every right to hate him._

_But if he’s truly sorry?_

_Sorry won’t bring Father back, it won’t remove Haymitch from our lives, it won’t change what they did to Annie. And he isn’t sorry, not for what matters. He’s sorry I yelled at him; sorry he thought I was a threat, when now he thinks I’m just a silly girl who misses her father. But I’m going to make him truly sorry, I swear._

_But he’s right, Coriolanus is evil. If he can’t blame me for loving a father who supported a bad king, can I really hate him for fighting against one?_

_And what about Annie?_

_He might not have had anything to do with that._

_The Yorkists have to pay. And now they will._

* * *

 

 _(a conscience,_ Madge decides, _is the wickedest thing of all_ )

* * *

 

Madge heads to Katniss’ chambers, arms laden with a special delivery. The royal dressmaker had just finished a new, glittering, gem encrusted gown and Madge is almost afraid to hold it, like she might ruin or sully it with her hands. It is gorgeous; truly, the type of dress only a queen could get away with wearing. Katniss will look lovely in it, but then again, Madge is fairly certain anyone would look magnificent in such a finely crafted gown.

“This is not a discussion Katniss!”

Madge stops short just outside the door to the Queen’s audience chamber, surprised at the loud, angry voices drifting from under the door.

“ _I_ am the Queen, Mother.”

“Yes and Queens have responsibilities! This is not something you get a choice about. You will do this, whether you like it or not!”

Madge gasps at Duchess Elizabeth’s tone and can’t help but wonder what they’re talking about. What is Katniss refusing to do?

“Where are you going? Katniss!”

Madge’s eyes widen and she hurries away, well aware that the price for being caught will be far too steep.

And really, she’s heard enough.

* * *

 

(cracks are beginning to show)

(it will be Madge’s job to widen them)

* * *

 

Gale does take her back to the archery field and there’s an air of awkwardness between them, an invisible barrier wedged between them. Madge wishes she knew how to surmount it, but Gale is distant, not in a rude way, but almost like he’s afraid to upset her, like he’s trying as hard as he can be to be polite. _This is no good. He’s traded hatred for fear._ Madge watches him as he picks up her scattered arrows and chews on her lip. _What do I say? How do we get past this?_

“Do you want to try again?” he asks and Madge feels a lump forming in her chest, like a rock has replaced her heart.

“I’m happy we’re doing this,” she blurts and Gale stares at her in surprise. “I know it may seem hard to believe, after what I said, but I really do want us to get along.”

Gale nods slowly and steps back a bit, sinking down onto a nearby tree stump. Madge interweaves her fingers and squeezes.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but so do I. I fought hard against Haymitch’s marriage to your mother, I couldn’t understand how anyone would want that, Coriolanus’ niece as a wife. I know she’s rich, I know she has many lands and a title, but still. I suppose that was another thing I was wrong about.”

“I didn’t want it either,” Madge admits, catching him off guard. “I was furious. But now…I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“I never had a big family and now I do. Haymitch treats my mother well, treats us both well. I will always miss my father, but I’m happy too, to be your family.”

Her voice lowers as she says it, quite against her will and Gale just looks at her, looks at her in a way that makes her stomach tie itself into knots. _What’s happening to me?_ He smiles then, the kind of fresh, young smile that makes her knees feel weak.

“So am I,” he says and she feels that guilt again, like ice in her veins. _He’s…he’s the enemy. There’s nothing to feel bad about._ The wind picks up and Madge seizes the opportunity to turn away from him.

“Perhaps we should go back inside before we freeze,” she says, fingers starting to numb. Gale nods and offers her his arm. She takes it and her skin prickles all over, straight down to her toes.

“You’re getting better,” he assures her and she manages a grin.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll soon be better than you.”

Gale laughs and Madge knows she should be proud. He despised her only months ago and now look; one might almost call them friends.

 _this is wrong_ whispers the voice in her head, sounding strangely like Annie.

 _the whole world is wrong_ she whispers back.

* * *

 

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with the Earl of Salisbury,” Annie comments during their nightly session of embroidery and Madge shrugs.

“Have I? Well, we are cousins now, aren’t we? It can’t hurt to get to know him better.”

Annie narrows her eyes but doesn’t say anything and neither does Madge.

(Why? Well, that’s a question Madge doesn’t want to examine too closely)

* * *

 

Defeat though, is always just around the corner.

She has been hitting wall after wall with Katniss, the obvious distrust she holds her in as grating as it is expected. Madge spends every day smiling, pretending, keeping her feelings bottled up and locked away. The Yorkists are nowhere near as kind. While she does everything that is asked of her without complaint and does her utmost to be the best lady in waiting she can be, the Queen rewards her by behaving as if Madge is doused in poison, as if her mere presence is a threat to the entire kingdom. Madge does not expect them to trust her entirely, does not expect them to love her, but they could at least put on a show, could at least make some effort to disguise their dislike.

Katniss never speaks to Madge except to give her orders and even those come through Prim far more often than they come from Katniss herself. Madge is given the most mundane of tasks, from laying out Katniss’ gowns to acting as scribe for generic thank you notes and boring summons. When anything of even the slightest sensitivity comes up, Katniss always contrives of some reason to send Madge away, usually something as ridiculous as asking the cook what they’ll be having for dinner. She is not allowed to even hold sealed letters containing any real information and anyone who comes to speak to the Queen stares at her with hostile eyes, refusing to utter a word until she is shuffled off.

Madge suffers this with as much graciousness as she can muster, greeting every suspicious envoy and minister politely, diligently performing her tasks and never showing even a hint of annoyance as she is sent on yet another pointless errand. _I have never done a thing to any of you. You hate me based solely on the actions of my family. My hands are bloodless, unlike most of yours._

Madge is currently on her way to talk to the Steward to ask if any messages have come for the Queen, even though if they had, he certainly would have sent word immediately. The real reason she’s been sent away is because Haymitch had arrived with urgent eyes, clearly harboring information of some importance. Madge had known instantly what that meant. Maybe, one day, if she does everything right, never complains and always smiles, they will decide she can be trusted.

(she is not holding her breath)

Madge turns a corner and stops in surprise. At the end of the hall is Gale, walking hand and hand with Posy. They’re talking, laughing and he may be the enemy (he is, he _is_ ), but at times like these, she could almost forget. She smiles unconsciously and heads towards them. Posy is the first to see her and she beams, skipping forward with renewed enthusiasm.

“Lady Madge!” she calls and Gale looks over at her, the faintest of smiles touching his lips.

“Hello Sir Gale, Lady Posy,” she greets and Gale bows his head.

“Gale’s taking me to the stables! I get to see the ponies!” Posy tells her excitedly and Gale smiles fondly down at his sister, Madge’s heart softening just a bit.

“Wow, that sounds amazing. I’m a little bit jealous,” she says and Posy’s eyes go wide.

“You can come with us! Can’t she Gale? Can’t she?”

Madge watches him, wondering what his answer will be. _Let’s see how far we’ve really come._

“Well, if she wants to,” he says and Madge smiles brightly. _How times have changed._

“I’d love to, but I’m on an important mission for the Queen,” Madge tells them, leaning in like it’s a secret. Posy gasps and covers her mouth with her hands.

“Next time then,” Gale says and Madge looks up at him in happy surprise.

“Definitely,” she agrees. “Enjoy the ponies.”

“Don’t worry, we will. And good luck to you on your mission,” he says and Madge raises an eyebrow. _Are you teasing me Lord Gale? Times certainly have changed then, haven’t they?_ Madge watches the two of them leave, her previous melancholy thoroughly trampled.

_Who cares if Katniss doesn’t trust me, I have Gale._

_That’s all I need._

* * *

 

December settles in softly and gently powders England in white. 

Windsor Castle looks picturesque in the snow, like something out of a fairy tale and Madge tries her best to find joy in that. All she can think of though, is last December, sitting anxiously at home awaiting news, finally hearing that the Duke of York was dead and foolishly rejoicing, believing the war was won. It feels like it’s been so much longer than just one year, decades maybe, a lifetime perhaps, but not a year. _What a cold, bitter anniversary…_

A soft giggle interrupts her thoughts, followed by a lusty grunt. Madge feels her ears burn and wonders why this keeps happening. _First Prince Cato and now this…_ Judging by the sounds, Madge would say they’re nearby, just around the corner. She knows that knowledge is power, knows finding out just who is moaning nearby could be a potential weapon, but there are some lines Madge is not quite prepared to cross. She starts to turn around, intending to just walk away but that’s when she hears it.

“Faster, Gale, _faster_.”

_Oh._

“God , _yes_ ,” is his answer and Madge feels odd, embarrassed certainly, but something else, almost hollow.

_Oh._

Madge leaves quietly, feet light as she moves through the corridors and she doubts either of them even had an inkling she was there. _That’s good, at least._ Madge closes her eyes for a moment and no matter how far away she goes, she can still hear them.

_faster Gale faster_

_God yes_

_(oh)_

* * *

 

For two full days, she and Gale do not interact.

Madge is always busy, always finds some reason not to be in the same room as him, the mere thought of speaking to him making her face burn. Her imagination has become a monster, filling her head with all sort of lurid images. She remembers Cato but now it is Gale she sees, thrusting thrusting _thrusting_ up under someone’s skirts. There are legs around his waist, hands in his hair and he’s kissing someone, her mouth, cheeks, jaw and neck. Madge shouldn’t be thinking anything of the sort but she can’t stop, and worse, she is invaded by other worries as well.

_Does he do this often?_

_Is she his mistress? Does he love her? Or does he just enjoy doing…_ that _with random women purely out of lust?_

_If I do succeed in winning him, will he continue to rendezvous with women in corners? Will I win this fight only to have to fight against all the other women in his life?_

_And what of the Queen, is he involved with her? Does he want to be?_

_What if his heart is already won? Or what if it doesn’t matter? What if he’s a carnal sort of man who cannot resist temptations of the flesh?_

What ifs plague her worse than any disease and the thought of Gale with this mystery woman bothers her so profoundly she cannot hope to explain it. She tries to tell herself it doesn’t matter, she must continue on with the plan just as before. _Make him love me, so much that no other woman will be able to compete. Nothing’s changed._

(except it has)

* * *

 

On the third day, Madge pulls herself together.

_It doesn’t matter what he does or who he does it with._

_Nothing has changed._

_Nothing._

She seeks him out, finds him just as he’s leaving from a meeting with Haymitch and Katniss. He’s mussed up his hair, always runs his hands through it when he’s frustrated. Madge watches him, with his eyebrows pulled down and his nose crinkled (all his tells for annoyance) and wonders what it was about, wonders what could have bothered him so much. She waits until Haymitch has gone off in another direction, waits longer for Gale and Katniss to part ways and then she moves towards Gale, a jovial smile on her face.

“Sir Gale! There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

He turns at her voice and tilts his head a bit in surprise, some of his tension already starting to fade.

“You were?”

“Yes,” she says with a nod, “I was hoping you wouldn’t be busy. Are you?”

He bites his lip and looks for a long moment in the direction Katniss left in, so long Madge fears he might say he is, but then he turns back to her with a shake of his head.

“No, I think I can find some time. Why?”

“You did promise me a trip to the stables,” she reminds him with a grin and he starts to smile.

“That I did. But Posy will be disappointed if we go without her.”

“Well, we’d best go and get her then.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” he asks and Madge looks at him confusion.

“Why would I?”

Gale’s whole face seems to lighten and he shakes his head.

“No reason. We’d better go, she’s probably terrorizing her nurse as we speak,” he says and Madge laughs.

“That does sound like her.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” he agrees, joining her in laughter and then he offers Madge his arm. She takes it and they start down the hallway together, Madge’s almost crumbled confidence building itself back up.

_It doesn’t matter, nothing’s changed._

(she may be older, but Madge is still naïve)

* * *

 

Madge embroiders quietly while Prim chatters beside her, Katniss staring pensively off into the distance. Madge can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking about, wishes she could peer inside her head. _What has you so deep in thought?_

“I was just telling Philippa that there was no way-“

Prim is suddenly cut off by a sharp knock at the door, followed shortly by Duchess Elizabeth’s voice.

“Open the door Katniss, we need to talk.”

Katniss’ whole face turns stony.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she calls, “I am terribly busy now, you must come back later.”

Duchess Elizabeth is silent and Prim bites her lip, looking anxiously between Katniss and the door.

“Of course,” comes the Duchess’ icy reply and Madge feels a kernel of hope plant itself in her belly.

_Perhaps the Yorkists will tear each other apart and save the rest of us the trouble._

* * *

 

Madge makes her way back to her chambers with heavy limbs.

Even with that potential ray of hope, serving the Queen feels a bit like swallowing glass. Every smile, every kind word, it eats away at her, rubs her raw until she is sure all her bones must be showing through her skin. _All these lies, how am I ever supposed to find my way out? Sometimes I think I might forget what the truth even is._

Madge knows she has no choice. This is her life now, whether she likes it or not. _It could be worse_ , she tells herself, repeats it like a mantra. However awful she finds her current life, _it could be worse_.

(while true, it isn’t exactly a comforting thought)

Madge turns a corner and suddenly it is worse, for standing a few yards away is her step-brother. She thinks of going back the way she’d come but Marvel looks around at the sound of her footsteps and smiles, an oily thing that makes her feel dirty.

“My darling sister,” he purrs, bowing nearly in half. Madge inhales and moves grudgingly towards him, allows him to press kisses to the backs of both her hands. He doesn’t let go, keeps her caught in his grip and she feels something hot growing in her stomach.

“We have not spent nearly as much time together as we should,” he says and forcing a smile has never been so hard.

“The Queen keeps me very busy,” she apologizes and he grins.

“It is a terrible pity, that one so lovely must spend so much time shut away.”

Madge supposes she is meant to blush at the compliment and hopes he isn’t too offended when all her skin does is crawl.

“I do not mind,” she answers and wishes he’d let go of her.

“Well everyone at court certainly does,” he insists and she’s not sure she believes him.

“There is many a young man who would wish to win your hand,” he continues and this she can believe. With her Lancastrian blood, her connection to the Yorkists and her grand inheritance, she is sure many men would eagerly wed and bed her. She’s just not sure the feeling is terribly mutual.

“I have been thinking a great deal on this matter, sister dearest, and I believe I have found the perfect husband for you.”

“Oh?” Madge asks, feeling slightly nauseated.

“Who better than the Queen’s most loyal cousin? I am already Earl of Northumberland, with a grand estate up north and I am the descendant of kings. I am wealthy, young and I promise, I would love you very well.” His voice lowers as he says it, grin salacious and Madge tries hard not to retch.

“I will be Earl of Warwick as well when my father dies, and you would make me Duke of Bedford and of Clarence. No couple in all of England would be a match for us.”

His tone is thick with ambition and Madge cannot find any words to answer. Thankfully, he does not appear to need one.

“The Queen could not possibly refuse. Dispensations would be needed of course, but we have the money and the Pope is eager to make friends with England’s new queen.” He leans in then, breath wafting over her face and heating her ear. “I will speak to her,” he whispers, “and soon, my love, we shall be joined forever.”

He kisses her cheek, lingering much too long and then finally he is gone, leaving Madge feeling as if there is a sword dangling just above her head. She has always known she would be sold off to whomever the Queen wished to reward, but the reality that it could be soon, so very, very soon, has never hit her until now. All her plans, so carefully plotted, could go up in smoke in a heartbeat if the Queen decides the time is now. It may not be Marvel, but it will be someone, some loyal Yorkist who cares nothing for Madge aside from her money. He will be her jailer, ensuring no one can rally around her to dislodge the Queen and he will reap the benefits of her inheritance while she is kept hidden away from court. Her life stretches out before her and she is nothing but a prize for the Queen to give away as she pleases, nothing but titles and land.

She’s not even a person, not anymore.

* * *

 

Madge is meant to be embroidering an undershirt but her hands shake, her stitches coming out messy and uneven. She looks down at her fingers as they quake and abandons her task, a heavy ball of lead weighing down her stomach. Annie’s eyes are on her, anxious and worried but Madge turns to the window and counts snowflakes as they drift past.

“Is something the matter?” Annie asks quietly, coming to stand behind her. Madge thinks of saying _no_ , thinks of pretending all is well but lies have become harder and harder to spin.

(maybe because they come so easily now)

“Yes,” she admits and Annie rests a soft hand on her arm, her reflection in the glass one of sympathy. Madge sighs.

“I know the Queen is going to marry me off and I’m…afraid. Those loyal to York still hate me, have branded me a traitor as sure as if I’d cut down their men myself. I don’t want a husband who’ll want me only for my inheritance, my blood, and despise me for everything else. Is it so wrong to hope for happiness?”

Annie gently turns her around and Madge feels silly for the tear she can feel sliding down her cheek.

“It’s not wrong, hope is never wrong.”

There’s an odd conviction in Annie’s voice, less like confidence and more like desperation, like she _needs_ it to be true, like hope is all that’s keeping her afloat. Madge nods and wipes at her eyes.

“I’m just being silly,” she says and the light catches on Henry’s ring. She runs a finger over it and almost laughs.

“You know, I used to be so excited to get married, I couldn’t wait. And now I’m starting to hope I never will.”

Tears try and build in her eyes again and Madge presses her thumb down on the ring until it aches. _Perhaps this is a part of growing up,_ she thinks _, realizing happiness is just a dream._ She looks back at the window; the dark sky dotted with white and wonders what it would be like to swim among the stars, far away from all her worries.

“I should be married now,” Annie whispers, gaze distant and Madge turns to her in surprise.

“Really?”

Annie nods, twisting her pretty ring around her finger.

“I should be Countess of Richmond.”

Madge feels her eyes go wide. “You were going to marry Finnick?”

Annie doesn’t answer and Madge bites her lip, gaze drifting down to the ring Annie’s still fiddling with. _Is that from him?_

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, he’s so very far away,” Annie murmurs, a lonely, aching sadness dripping from her words. Madge feels a pang in her chest and presses her hands to the fabric over her heart, grief and sympathy welling up inside of her.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes and it feels so inadequate. Annie smiles, eyes wet and shining.

“Don’t be, he’s alive. That’s what really matters.”

Madge nods, tears gathering and threatening to spill over. She doesn’t ask if Annie loves him, knows it can’t do anything but make everything worse.

_Oh Annie…._

Madge knows there’s nothing she can say, so she flings her arms around her and hopes a hug can soothe the heartbreak in her eyes. Annie doesn’t say anything either, but her fingers cling to Madge’s sleeve, tears wetting the fabric.

_Wasn’t the whole point of this rebellion to lift the King’s shadow from England? To give everyone a chance at a happy life?_

_Why then, are we still miserable?_

* * *

 

December continues on, the holiday season inching ever closer.

Madge has not spent a Christmas at Court since she was nine years old and horrid memories start to rise up, blanketing the season with dark clouds. They are at Windsor, not Westminster and it is Queen Katniss’ court, rather than King Coriolanus’, but still, she cannot fight the chill lingering just below her skin. That Christmas, six years ago exactly, ruined her, peeled back the layers and exposed the rotting core of England, stripped away the illusions she’d been clinging to. It had marked the beginning of the end, her first taste of the nightmare to come.

Madge cannot help but fear what this Christmas will bring.

(the end)

(of what?)

(everything)


	5. the game of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why do i feel like this?

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_part one_  
_now rises the sun of york_  
_chapter four_  
_the game of love_

The late December wind is chilly as it blows over the castle, giving Madge plenty of reason to draw closer to Gale as they walk along the ramparts. She tucks into his side with a shiver and he rubs her gloved fingers with his, heat spilling through her.

“What do you think?” he asks, gesturing out at the snow covered world stretched out before them. Madge feels her breath catch in her throat.

“It’s amazing,” she whispers in awe and Gale nods.

“That’s why I wanted to bring you here,” he says with a smile and Madge finds herself smiling back. He turns from her to the snow covered land below, a look of nostalgia washing over his face. He leans against the battlements, arms folded and Madge watches him with a strange ache in her chest.

“Once, when I was a boy, my father brought me up to the roof of our castle, Middleham, and we watched the sun rise together. It was…it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. After that, no matter where we were, our castle or someone else’s, we always made sure to find the perfect spot to watch the sunrise together. And even though he’s…not here anymore, it’s still the first thing I do at every new castle.”

Gale smiles a little wistfully, a little sadly and Madge squeezes his arm.

“I’ve never watched the sun rise,” she says quietly, strangely feels like it would be wrong to speak too loudly.

“Well, you won’t find a better place at Windsor to do it than here.”

Madge nod and bites her lip.

“I think I’d like to, someday.”

“Maybe I’ll join you,” Gale says, looking away from the view to meet her gaze. Madge smiles, her stomach doing something truly odd. He continues to look at her, neither one of them saying a word and Madge feels truly out of sorts, her whole body experiencing the same strangeness as her stomach. The wind picks up; whipping their cloaks and hair around, and Madge has to close her eyes against its sharp sting.

“Maybe we should head back inside,” Gale laughs and she nods.

“Yes please.”

He leads her back in, his body warm despite the bitter cold and she still feels a bit like she’s standing on unsteady ground. The way he’d looked at her…he must be growing fond of her, very fond. But then…

_Faster Gale faster_

_God yes_

Perhaps he is simply hoping to bed her, as he had that other girl. Madge feels her stomach harden. _Well, he won’t. I shall have his heart._

(and still, that little voice in her head whispers, _and what will you do when you have it?_ )

* * *

 

Madge carries a truly boring missive from the cook back to Katniss’ chambers, her latest pointless errand. Everyone had acted as if were of the utmost importance but Madge knows it matters little to Katniss whether they have mutton or venison for dinner tonight. The truth is merely that the Duchess had arrived, fire in her eyes, and that meant Madge had to be shuffled off. She sighs for the umpteenth time as she reaches the door to Katniss’ outer chambers and walks inside.

“This is beyond foolishness now, Katniss. You cannot carry on this way.”

Madge freezes at the sound of Duchess Elizabeth’s voice coming from Katniss’ bedchamber. Her tone is sharp and Madge quickly shuts the outer door behind her.

“May I remind you, Mother, that I am the queen?” Katniss asks, sounding more weary than angry. Madge tiptoes closer to the inner door and presses her ear against it.

“For now, perhaps, but it won’t be for long if you carry on as such,” comes the Duchess’ sharp retort and Madge clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. There is a long, heavy pause and Madge cannot help but hold her breath.

“Some might consider that treason,” Katniss finally murmurs and Madge moves back a few paces towards the crack between the door and the wall to hear her better.

“It is a fact Katniss, one you seem determined to ignore. I don’t understand why this is so difficult for you to grasp!” Duchess Elizabeth snaps, voice louder with frustration. Madge’s eyes go wide.

“I have already done as you asked, Mother. Vick, Rory and Haymitch have married-”

“That is not enough! Posy, Marvel and Gale _must_ marry into the nobility as well. We need to bind England’s most prominent families to us, to ensure they stand with us when Lancaster rises again!”

“I understand tha-”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do. But-”

“But nothing! Coriolanus may be languishing in the tower, but Cato is still out there. There are still Lancastrians in England that would fight with him, not to mention all those who would prefer a boy on the throne to a woman.”

There is another pause and Madge can imagine Katniss’ frustration. _I don’t know if I could manage with such a domineering Mother_ , she thinks and frowns as she pictures it. _Definitely not._

“I know-” Katniss begins, only to be cut off yet again.

“Then why will you not do as I say? We need allies if we are to remain on the throne Katniss. You _must_ arrange marriages for Posy, Marvel and Gale into the nobility. I cannot understand why you are so resistant!”

There is another pause and Madge leans even farther forward, her nails digging into the wood of the door. Katniss sighs helplessly.

“It doesn’t feel right, choosing for them-”

“ _Right_? You are the Queen! You have every right and they will do their duty graciously or lose all the favours you have bestowed upon them. They have risen high on your success, but they can fall just as quickly.”

Madge’s eyes widen at the threat in the Duchess’ voice, a promise she would not hesitate to keep. _This is worse than I thought. Or is it better?_

“Mother-”

“Likewise, you and Primrose _must_ find husbands from foreign royalty. We need the other monarchs of Europe to recognize us as the legitimate rulers of England, or we are ruined. If they lend their support to the Lancastrians, all we have worked for will be lost. Is that what you want?”

There is a lengthy pause and then

“No,” Katniss says quietly, so quietly Madge barely hears it.

“You need a husband. You must produce an heir, a son, or we will never see an end to the instability plaguing England.”

“But-”

“No, Katniss. I have heard all your arguments. You cannot simply name one of your cousins as heir, you must give England a son. What the people want is a peaceful succession, one that cannot be questioned or disputed. They are tired of the warfare, the jostling for power. They want stability and that can only be achieved if you hand the crown to your son. Coriolanus has Cato and until you have a prince of your own, the Lancastrians will always be appealing. Furthermore, you are a woman Katniss, many will never be comfortable with you ruling alone. They will only be confident if you have a man beside you and we cannot afford to lose their confidence.”

“I know. I know,” Katniss whispers, the exhaustion in her tone tinged with despair.

“Then do it,” Duchess Elizabeth says, voice cold. “Find a wealthy prince and give him a fine crop of sons to solidify our dynasty. And then make a queen of your sister.”

“ _No_. I will not send her away.”

Madge startles a bit at Katniss’ vehemence. _She has been so passive, how strange to hear her finally standing up to her mother._

“You do not have a choice! We need the support of other royal houses and there is no better way to get that than to make Primrose a queen.”

“I won’t send her away!” Katniss shouts, fire burning in her words. Madge jumps a little at her anger. _I do not think I have ever seen or heard her so angry._

“You will, do you hear me? This is not a discussion! You will find Primrose a husband whether you like it or not!” Duchess Elizabeth all but roars and Madge has to flatten herself against the wall to avoid the door as the Duchess comes crashing through it. Madge swallows her squeak of surprise and Duchess Elizabeth strides to the other door, wrenching it open and slamming it shut behind her. Madge places a hand over her heart and releases the breath she’d been holding.

_The House of York is certainly falling to pieces._

 “I’m just so tired of everyone telling me what to do,” Katniss whispers to no one and Madge hates herself for the sudden pity she can feel in her heart.

_Curse these Yorkists, curse them all_

* * *

 

Katniss and Duchess Elizabeth’s argument continues to echo through her head over the next few days and Madge knows she is running out of time. _What if Katniss bows to her mother’s wishes? I could lose any chance of winning Gale. Worse, Katniss might accept Marvel’s request that we marry. I need to do something, but what?_

Madge is so caught up in her worries she doesn’t notice there is someone else in the hall until she walks right into him. She lets out a little cry of surprise and hands grab her arms to help steady her, hands she recognizes in an instant.

“Careful there,” Gale says with a bit of laugh and Madge flushes.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes as she straightens up and Gale laughs again.

“No worries, but…may I ask what has you so deep in thought?”

Madge’s eyes widen as she scrambles to find a plausible excuse.

“Oh, just…just trying to decide what the Queen should wear for Christmas,” she invents and Gale nods.

“Ah yes, I suppose that’s very important.”

“Yes,” Madge nods, “very, very important. And what are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m just off to see the physician.”

“Are you alright?” she asks in alarm and he smiles a little.

“Fine, just um, a bit of a chill I think. Nothing serious.”

Madge frowns because a chill could be very serious; after all, people die of chills all the time! She is just about to say so when Gale’s eyes widen and he turns his head, sneezing loudly.

“God bless you,” she tells him quickly, leaning forward in worry and he nods, fumbling in his doublet for a handkerchief. He pulls one out to blow his nose and Madge feels her mouth pop open.

“There is a gigantic hole in that,” she says and Gale holds it out. He grimaces.

“Right, yeah I know. I’ve been meaning to get a new one, but I keep forgetting.”

Madge shakes her head and takes his arm. _Hopeless, honestly._

“You need to get to the physician,” she all but orders and starts to march him down the hall.

“I’m really alright, you needn’t be concerned.”

“I can’t help that,” she tells him and he smiles, looking pleased. She marches him to Katniss’ physician and gives him a stern look before she leaves.

“You best do as he tells you. You must take good care of yourself.”

Gale grins and places a hand over his heart.

“I swear on my honour, Lady Madge, that I shall be a model patient.”

Madge nods.

“See that you are.”

She turns to go, Gale’s eyes tickling her back and again Katniss and Duchess Elizabeth’s conversation crowds in on her.

_What if after all this work, it all comes to nothing?_

She stops and looks back at him, their eyes meeting and her whole body starts to feel empty and cold.

_What if this really is the end?_

_What then?_

* * *

 

Christmas finally arrives, but Madge’s holiday cheer has long since disappeared.

All the week leading up to December 25th, there had been pageants and plays, each one acting out a scene from the life of Christ. Madge had found herself unable to enjoy any of them, applauding half-heartedly and gripped with dread. The handkerchief she’d been making had taken her twice as long as usual to complete, so distracted with worry was she and she’d felt so ill she’d had to excuse herself from the hunt. With each day that passed, she felt as if a noose was slowly tightening around her neck.

It was six years ago and yet it could have been yesterday.

The night of, Annie helps her dress and Madge feels a hard lump forming in her stomach, weighing her down with memories of that last royal Christmas. _It’s different now, it’s different_ she tries to tell herself but _what if isn’t_? Annie laces her into a golden kirtle and then a houppelande of rich purple silk embroidered with silver and gold, but Madge can find no cheer in her sumptuous clothes. _Please Lord, let it be different this time._

The cuffs, collar and hem are maroon and they match her girdle, decorated with hearts made of pearls with a bright ruby in the center of each. Madge runs her fingers over those hearts and feels her own shaking in her chest. Annie hangs a string of gold, pearls and amethysts around her neck and then weaves purple ribbons into her hair, capping it off with a golden circlet, the metal cool against Madge’s forehead.

“You look beautiful,” Annie says and this is so like last time that Madge almost weeps. Instead she stands, smoothing down the fabric of her skirt.

“I wish you were coming with me,” she says and Annie smiles.

“It’s alright; it’ll be nice to spend one Christmas away from court.”

Madge nods and wishes she could spend all her Christmases far, far away from court. Annie reaches forward and squeezes her hand, her fingers comforting.

“It’ll be alright,” Madge says and she can’t be sure if she’s saying it for herself or for Annie. Not that it really matters, they’re both smart enough to know it won’t be.

It never is, after all.

* * *

 

Madge and Prim follow Katniss into the Great Hall, everyone bowing as they approach. The whole room has been scrubbed fresh, wreaths, holly boughs and garlands hang over every door and window and gold dust has been sprinkled over everything, making the entire room glitter. This is Katniss’ very first Christmas as queen and she has gone all out, but then, she doesn’t have much choice. The new monarchy cannot appear weak or lacking in funds, they must be magnificent. _They certainly are that,_ Madge thinks, taking in the cat and rose shaped sculptures made of ice and the heavy white powder along the walls to mimic snow. Shimmery silver stars hang from the rafters and though Katniss is competing with Coriolanus’ ghost, her idea of a Christmas celebration is much more informal than his.

There will be no sit down dinner, instead benches cluster at one end of the hall and banqueting tables line the length of one whole wall, each laden with mountains of delicious food. People can serve themselves, can sit if needed but the majority of the room has been left open for dancing. Star spangled minstrels play on the raised platform usually reserved for the Queen’s high table, serving boys wearing bells offer wine, mead and cider and even Madge cannot help but be affected by the air of gaiety infusing every inch of the hall. The laughter, golden light, sweet smells and twinkling decorations begin to rub away at her shell of apprehension, but still, she remembers last time, remembers how she’d been enchanted by beauty then too only to have her every hope shattered. _Never forget what Kings and Queens are capable of. Coriolanus might not be ruling any longer, but these Yorkists are no angels._

There is a golden throne with velvet cushions for Katniss and Madge and Prim follow her as she heads over to it, the crowd parting seamlessly. Katniss sits, Madge and Prim settling on stools to either side of her. Servers immediately arrive with the best choices of food and drink, because unlike everyone else, the Queen could never be expected to serve herself. Madge chooses some spiced wine, a sugared plum and a miniature meat pie, not wanting to overeat if she’ll be expected to dance all night long.

Katniss, who never joins the dancing, chooses a fair bit of everything offered and Madge can’t help but remember Marvel’s comments. _It is good for a woman to watch her figure._ Overwhelmed with a sudden surge of spite, Madge makes sure to spear several more plums and hopes that wherever he is in the room, he sees her eating them all.

“Oh no, look at that. You know, Rory said he wasn’t going to dance tonight but I told him that was ridiculous, after all it’s Christmas! And also, it would incredibly ungallant of him not to partner Philippa and yet look at him,” Prim points out with a frown and Madge follows her finger. Rory and Philippa are hovering at the fringe of the dancers, standing just a bit too far apart, their eyes looking anywhere but each other.

“He’s not being a very good husband, is he?” Prim asks sourly and Madge doesn’t say that she thinks Philippa’s probably glad Rory hasn’t asked her to dance.

“Hmm,” Katniss answers noncommittally. Prim nods.

“He’s always saying that being married is no fun at all, but he isn’t exactly helping the situation, is he?”

Madge will concede that, but again, she’s fairly certain neither one of them is helping. Prim continues to glare at the pair of them and Katniss rolls her eyes.

“Would you like to go and sort them out?” she asks and Prim beams at her.

“Oh yes, thank you, I won’t be long,” she promises, kissing her sister on the cheek and then heading off. Katniss watches her go with a shake of her head. Madge turns back to her pie and she is beyond glad both she and Katniss are busy eating. She has no idea if she is meant to speak or if she should hold her tongue, it is usually Prim who fills their silence. Not that it ends up mattering much, for only moments after Prim leaves, Marvel appears, his signature grin in place. Madge feels her skin prickle.

“A most happy and joyous Christmas to you, my most beloved cousin and Queen,” Marvel says, bowing low and kissing Katniss’ hand. She smiles thinly.

“And to you,” she says and Marvel turns to Madge, his gaze heating up. She drops her eyes, focusing instead on his pointed shows and hopes they both chalk it up to maiden bashfulness.

“And of course, a most marvelous Christmas to you, my lovely sister,” he says, voice low. His lips are too hot on her hand as he kisses it and Madge wishes she was anywhere but here.

“I was hoping I might beg the hand of your fair lady for a dance,” he says to Katniss, his smile large and arrogant. Madge squeezes her plate and knows there’s no escape. _Not tonight, and maybe not ever. Maybe he’ll even get Katniss to agree to our marriage._

“I must beg your pardon cousin, but I have need of her services,” Katniss tells him and Madge looks up in surprise. For one brief, tiny second, there is an ugly look in Marvel’s eyes but he smothers it quickly.

“Of course, perhaps another time,” he says cheerily and Madge feels relief filing her up.

“If you are looking for a partner, I see the Marchioness of Montagu is in need of one,” Katniss points out and they both follow her line of sight. Vick is out on the floor with Posy, his nine year old wife Petronella left to look at the dancers with a face full of yearning.

“Of course,” Marvel manages, his cheer a little forced. Madge watches him head over to Petronella, her whole face lighting up when he asks her to dance. Madge almost smiles as they join the other couples, their height difference making for a truly odd pair. Left alone with Katniss yet again, she looks around the room for something to do and finds her mother sitting on one of the benches with Hazelle. _At least she’s not being forced to dance tonight._ Perhaps it is the glow of so many candles, but Madge is sure her mother looks haler than usual, her complexion not nearly as pale and wan. _A Christmas miracle, some might say._ Madge is not foolish enough to believe her mother will ever be healthy, but she is selfish and wishes her mother might live forever. _I am not ready to be without you._

She returns to looking around, lest she depress herself and oddly, she cannot find Haymitch anywhere, but she spies the surly looking Lady Alma near the banquet table, her cold eyes fastened on Katniss. _That’s Finnick’s mother, isn’t it? I know his step-father fought for York; I suppose that’s why Lady Alma has managed to remain in favour. Still, no wonder she looks so sour. It must be awful, having your son so far away._

Madge cannot help but think of her own father, farther away even than France and turns to her sugared plums to try and soften the pain. _Christmas revels are no time for melancholy,_ she chides herself, _it is your duty to appear happy and gay._ She licks sugar off her thumb and then her eyes find Gale, looking so very handsome in a silver doublet with gold embroidery. He is heading towards them and Madge follows him through the crowd, her heart bouncing in her chest. He is hiding something behind his back and when he turns slightly to avoid some dancers, she gets a glimpse of it and frowns. _A book? Why has he brought a book?_ He reaches them and bows, an easy, happy smile on his face. _He should smile more often_ she thinks and then shakes her head.

“Happy Christmas, my Queen,” he greets and Katniss rolls her eyes.

“I was wondering if you were ever going to show up,” she says and he grins.

“Terribly sorry, I hate to keep you waiting.”

Katniss snorts and Gale turns to Madge, his eyes bright. He bows and kisses her hand, a tingle traveling up her arm.

“Happy Christmas,” he tells her, voice softer than when he’d spoken with Katniss.

“And to you, Lord Gale,” she replies and he lifts his head to meet her eyes.

“Perhaps you two should dance,” Katniss suggests, voice a bit strange, “Lady Madge is probably bored sitting here with me.”

Madge turns to look at her and Katniss is determinedly not looking at either of them, her expression somewhat uncomfortable.

“I’m not bored in the slightest, your Grace,” Madge says because she is supposed to, still trying to puzzle out what’s going on. Gale grins.

“I was actually going to ask you if I could borrow Lady Madge,” he says and Katniss nods a little too eagerly. Gale turns back to Madge.

“Will you join me Lady Madge?” he asks and she smiles.

“Of course, with your permission, Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, go on,” Katniss says, waving her away. Gale takes her hand and Madge stands, entirely flummoxed. _What on Earth is going on? Why is Katniss acting so strange? And why does she want me to dance with Gale, when she shut Marvel down so quickly?_ Madge looks back at Katniss as Gale leads her through the crowd and she is watching them anxiously, teeth biting into her lip. _Why is she so concerned about this?_

And then it hits her. Madge feels her mouth drop open.

_She wants me to marry Gale._

It is obvious now, Madge can’t believe she almost missed it. That’s why Katniss didn’t want her to dance with Marvel but practically threw her at Gale. Her mother is demanding Katniss find Gale a wife, but she doesn’t want to choose one for him.

_Perhaps she’s noticed how much time we spend together, or perhaps someone’s mentioned it to her, maybe even Gale. Perhaps she is hoping to encourage us so that Gale will pick me himself._

_I am the richest heiress in England, what better prize for Katniss’ most loyal cousin? And he can certainly be trusted to keep my claim to the throne safe._

_Yes, yes, that_ has _to be it._

Madge almost feels like laughing. _I’ve done it, I’ve won_. With Katniss in her corner, she cannot lose. _I have the Queen, Gale will not be long in following._

_I’ve won._

Gale stops and Madge looks around in curiosity, so caught up in her thoughts she hadn’t even realized where he was leading her. They are standing out in a hallway, the bright lights of the ball spilling out over them. The music is quieter here and Madge looks up at Gale in confusion, his smile sweet and excited.

“I know gift giving is meant for New Year’s, but I couldn’t wait. This is for you,” he says and hands her the book.

“For me?” she asks, blinking in surprise. Gale nods eagerly, maybe a bit nervously and Madge takes it with wide eyes.

“The Encyclopedia of Heraldry,” she reads, running her fingers over the golden letters embossed on the front.

“I remember when we spoke of it, you sounded very interested. I thought you might like this,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and Madge can feel her stomach clench. She squeezes the book in her hands, nails sinking into the leather cover. She looks back up at him and she is honestly, genuinely touched, her heart shivering in her chest.

“Thank you,” she whispers and foolishly wants to cry. He shuffles his feet and shrugs.

“It was nothing,” he says, but he won’t meet her eyes and she bites her lip.

“I have something for you too,” she remembers suddenly and he stares at her in shock. He looks very young, surprise making all his edges soft and smooth. She’s not quite sure why, but she can’t look away from him as she reaches into the pouch hanging from her girdle, the silver of his eyes brighter than she’s ever seen. She pulls out the handkerchief she’d made, fingers sliding over the cool silk.

“You made this for me?”

She nods. He blinks, clearly caught off guard and maybe touched. She holds it out for him and he takes it tentatively, both of their fingers knotted in the fabric for one moment that seems to last and last and last.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, more sincere now than she’s ever heard him. She lets go, her fingertips burning, and he spreads it out between his hands, eyes taking in the border of white roses outlined in silver, the great double headed eagle in the centre and his motto carefully stitched in Latin beneath it.

“Thank you,” he repeats, looking into her eyes and Madge nods, not quite able to find words. She hugs his book to her chest and this here, this is the end.

Not that Madge realizes that quite yet.

* * *

 

After her book is safely conveyed up to her room by a summoned Annie, Gale leads Madge back into the hall.

There is a humming in her veins that has nothing to do with wine and they spin onto the dance floor, both of them smiling like idiots. They move in perfect sync, standing a bit too close for propriety but Madge doesn’t care. She feels bright and shiny, this Christmas so, so much better than last time.

She has won Katniss, she’s winning Gale and soon, soon everything will fall perfectly into place.

(but is that really the only reason you’re so happy?)

* * *

 

(Gale falls into bed that night, his entire body singing. He tucks Madge’s handkerchief beneath his pillow and he can still see her face as she accepted his gift, sweet and lovely and touched.

He knows it’s silly of course, to feel _things_ when he’s with Madge, but he can’t help it.

She is beautiful yes, he’d have to be blind to think otherwise, but he’s seen plenty of pretty girls, has even had a dalliance or two. This though, this doesn’t feel quite like that. With Madge, as much as he knows it’s crazy, he wants to talk with her, to listen to every word she says. He wants to walk with her, likes the way she fits against his side. He wants to make her smile, laugh.

It’s insane, really, she’s a Lancastrian. Friendly, yes, he could accept that. But this, whatever _this_ is?

He’s lost his mind)

(and strangely, he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he should)

* * *

 

Madge attends on the Queen the next morning feeling decidedly ill. She feels lightheaded, her stomach fluttering uncomfortably and often feels as if she might swoon. It can’t have been the food, as no else appears sick and she knows she hadn’t overindulged in the wine, so the precise cause of her illness remains a mystery. Whatever it is, she certainly cannot afford to fall sick now, when things with Gale are progressing so nicely. She thinks back to his gift last night, the sweetly vulnerable look on his face and feels her knees go weak again, a spell of faintness coming over here. _This is ridiculous, whatever I’ve caught, I have to kick it soon._

“Lady Madge,” Katniss calls and Madge shakes her head to clear it.

“Yes, your Majesty?” she asks and can’t help but look at her differently, knowing now that Katniss values her as a potential bride for Gale.

“I would like you to write to inform everyone on this list of the upcoming betrothal of my cousin Lady Posy of Salisbury to Henry Grey, son and heir of the Earl of Kent,” Katniss says, a hint of defeat shadowing her words. Madge curtseys deeply and takes the offered list.

“Of course, your Majesty.”

She retreats over to a writing desk, her head swirling with thoughts. _Katniss has given into this demand of her mother’s, will the rest soon follow? And Posy, she’s not yet six years old. I wonder how Gale will feel about this._

Madge shakes her head. _It doesn’t matter what Gale thinks_ , she tells herself sternly.

(but still, she cannot help but wonder)

* * *

 

If you ask, Madge will tell you she stumbled upon Gale entirely accidentally, that she was not, under any circumstances, seeking him out. The fact that she finds him out in the stables, tending to his horse as he usually does this time of day, is pure coincidence.

Christmas had seen a heavy snowfall and Madge can feel it soaking through her boots as she hesitates at the stables’ entrance, her eyes fixed on Gale’s back. He is brushing his horse’s mane and Madge can feel her stomach begin to writhe again, her disease coming fully to life. _What is wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? And why am I hesitant to speak with Gale?_

_What is going on?_

“Can I help you, my lady?”

Madge jumps and turns to see a groom to her right, bowing low. She frantically tries to think of a reason for her being there, one that has nothing to do with Gale.

“Oh, well, I um…”

“Lady Madge?”

Madge and the groom both turn towards Gale. He has stopped brushing his horse and is looking at her with a smile just starting to touch his lips. Madge’s stomach starts to boil.

“Lord Gale,” she greets with a curtsy and the groom bows before moving away. She straightens and heads towards him, her illness tickling beneath her skin.

“And what brings you here, Lady Madge?” Gale asks with a smile, arms folded as he leans back against his horse’s pen.

“Merely taking in the winter air,” she answers with far more confidence than she feels and his grin widens.

“It that so?”

“Indeed it is. I was simply taking a stroll and then I thought perhaps you might be lonely, with only your horse as company.”

“How very kind of you. And brave, to go for a walk in such cold. I thought it was only us Northerners who’d choose to go out on days like today.”

Madge shrugs.

“I could leave if you’d like,” she offers, her own smile starting to threaten her face and Gale grins even wider.

“Now I didn’t say that. In fact, I’m just about done. Would you allow me to escort you back to the castle?”

Madge makes a show of considering it before nodding.

“A gracious offer, my lord. I most heartily accept.”

“Wonderful,” Gale says and pushes off the stall. He bends over in an exaggerated bow and Madge matches it with an overdone curtsy of her own, the both of them just barely keeping a lid on their laughter. He offers her his arm and she takes it, warmth somehow passing through both their clothes to heat her skin. He leads her back out into the snow and Madge barely even notices the damp chill in her boots.

“And I suppose you coming out here has nothing to do with Posy’s betrothal?” he asks and Madge bites her lip.

“No, but...since you mention it, how is Posy?”

“Well, she was excited. That is until she talked to Rory, who insisted being married was terrible. Now she’s very adamantly against it.”

Madge frowns.

“Rory? He’s barely even married.”

Gale snorts.

“That’s what I said.”

“And you?” Madge asks, “How are you taking it?”

Gale doesn’t answer for a moment and Madge moves closer, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

“It’s a good marriage, it’ll make Posy a countess one day. Henry’s only a year older than she is and he seems nice, for an almost seven year old. Posy won’t be living with him for years yet, really, I don’t have any reason to be anything but happy.”

“But?”

“But I don’t know. I suppose I wish she had more time to be just Posy and not Henry Grey’s wife.”

“At least they’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other,” she offers and he nods, his smile somewhat forced.

“Yes, there is that. I just…I think when I have children, I would want them to wait a little longer to get married.”

Madge nods.

“Me too.”

Gale turns to look at her, their eyes meeting.

“I’m glad we agree,” he says, voice soft and Madge nods, a strange mix of feelings swelling up inside her.

“So am I,” she whispers and she can understand the victory surging through her, but there is something almost like fear in her blood as he smiles, his eyes sweet and silver like the stars.

_This is what I wanted, I’m winning._

_So why am I so afraid?_

* * *

 

1469 arrives in a squall of frost and snow.

The residents of Windsor are forced to retreat within the safety of the castle walls as the storm rages outside, the wind howling angrily. Madge and Annie curl up by the fire, wrapped snugly in furs and blankets as they pour over Madge’s new heraldry book.

She has been almost afraid to look through it, the pages so delicate and beautiful. Each one is dedicated to a different badge, accompanied by a stunning painting and underneath, in careful, meticulous script, is a description of its symbolism and use. At the back are explanations of the various colours one might use and what they represent, as well as other details for crafting and understanding badges and coats of arms. It is magnificent, truly, and Madge feels a sort of glow in her chest every time she thinks of it.

She has it open on her lap and Annie leans against her shoulder to better see each beautifully illuminated page. Madge lingers over the painting of the bell, that familiar ache filling her chest. _Oh father…I miss you, I miss you so much._

They go through each badge one by one until they reach the wyvern, Annie’s finger gently tracing its outline. It’s a bit more stylized than the one she’s always stitching and Madge feels her heart squeeze at the melancholy bleeding from her eyes.

_Oh Annie_

“We shall have to come up with our own badges now,” Madge says, trying to lighten the mood and Annie manages a sad sort of smile.

“Yes, we should.”

Madge nods and can’t manage a smile of her own, the cold in her bones having nothing to do with the storm outside.

_Oh Annie, I’ll make this better somehow, I swear._

_No matter the cost, I promise._

* * *

 

Madge’s illness continues unabated, except, well, that’s not entirely true.

It fades almost entirely, flaring up only when she’s with Gale. Whenever he smiles or laughs or holds her hand, she can feel it overtaking her, her stomach fluttering, her skin tingling, her legs turning into pudding. It doesn’t take long for her to face the truth.

 _Guilt_ , that must be it. That stupid, stupid guilt she’d felt ever since his apology except worse now. The nicer he becomes, the worse she gets and that has to be it. She tells herself, over and over, that she has nothing to be guilty about, that he has brought this on himself, but her symptoms do not vanish, seem to intensify with every passing day.

_He is the enemy. No matter how kind he is now, that does not change what he’s done._

(this is her mantra, her constant refrain, but where she once burned with conviction, she now feels only a brief tickling of flame in her chest)

(it is not that she has forgiven the Yorkists, she hasn’t, that inferno still boiling her blood, but maybe, just maybe, blaming Gale for all their crimes is becoming harder and harder and harder)

_He is the enemy_

(but what if he isn’t?)

* * *

 

The horrid January weather abates briefly but Madge does not enjoy it, sitting and embroidering in the Queens’ chambers instead while Katniss pours over a tall stack of papers. The silence between them is somewhat awkward without Prim to fill it, but she is off riding with Rory and Philippa, who seem to get on best when there is someone between them. It is not that Madge has any great urge to speak with Katniss, but this quiet is anything but comfortable. They have never really been alone together and now that she knows Katniss favours her for Gale’s wife, she cannot keep tension from creeping over her. She wants to make a good impression, wants to ensure she remains at the top of Katniss’ list of potential brides, but she knows so little of Katniss she is unsure what she should do. Madge embroiders a cushion and _what’s your idea of the perfect wife Katniss? What should I do to impress you?_

A knock sounds at the door and Madge would be lying if she said she was anything other than relieved. _Perhaps it is someone who wishes to speak with her, at least then we won’t be alone anymore._ She stands and heads over, sighing a little when she opens the door. _Only a courier._ He is holding a small package and he bows, snow tumbling from his hat to the floor.

“A gift my lady, from the Earl of Kent for Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Thank you,” Madge says as she takes it, passing him a coin as tip. He bows again and leaves while Madge shuts the door and turns back to Katniss.

“A present, your Majesty, from the Earl of Kent,” she says, walking back into the room.

“Oh,” Katniss says without looking up from her pile, “what is it?”

Madge removes the letter on top and places it aside for Katniss to read later. She opens the package and gasps quietly. Inside is a lovely necklace of gold with emeralds, pearls and diamonds.

“A necklace, your Grace,” Madge says, holding it up.

“It’s beautiful,” Katniss says without turning her head, “Please draft a letter to the Earl expressing my thanks.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” Madge says with an nod and places it back in its box. She puts it over by the Queen’s jewel coffers, but not inside, only Prim and Katniss having a key to those.

“Will you wear it to the wedding?” she asks as she makes her way over to a writing desk in the corner. Katniss sighs softly.

“I suppose I must,” she says in a somewhat defeated tone and Madge frowns. She remembers Katniss’ words _I’m just so tired of everyone telling me what to do_ and cannot help another flutter of pity in her heart. _Not even the choice of which jewels to wear is left up to her._

“I think it would look lovely with the new gown of brocade the tailor just finished,” Madge offers and Katniss looks up from her paperwork to blink at her.

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Madge nods, “especially with the right earrings. Perhaps the emeralds you wore at Christmas?”

“Oh,” Katniss says, looking entirely lost, “I have no idea. Prim or my mother usually arranges what I wear.”

“Of course, you are very busy,” Madge agrees and Katniss shrugs.

“I suppose, but even if I wasn’t, I have no idea how to decide what goes together and what doesn’t,” she admits, sounding somewhat embarrassed.

“Oh, well, I could show you if you like,” Madge offers and Katniss stares at her.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all your Majesty, it would be my pleasure,” she assures her with a smile.

“Oh, alright. I think, I think I would like that Lady Madge, thank you,” Katniss says, voice a little shy and then, for the first time Madge can remember, she smiles. It is quite small, a little unsure, but there and for a moment, Madge does not hate Katniss of York.

(but only for a moment)

(she cannot afford anything more)

* * *

 

February arrives and with it, Posy’s wedding.

It is to be held in Windsor’s St George’s Chapel and Madge wears blue damask and a great deal of pearls. She helps Katniss dress and then Marvel arrives to escort her to the ceremony, her smile a little less forced now that she knows Katniss does not favor their match. He leads her into the chapel, the sky blue silk of his doublet sparkling with golden thread. Madge takes a seat beside her mother and Marvel presses against her, his hand coming to rest on her thigh. She can feel her skin crawl, can feel an angry sickness start to boil in her stomach but she knows it will only end poorly for her if she tries to protest. For now at least, Madge is still at the mercy of these Yorkists. Would any of them believe her over Marvel? Would they bother to do anything even if they did? She doubts it. But this is only for a little longer; soon they’ll be at her mercy instead.

The remainder of the royal family files in, filling up the front row with Katniss and Prim arriving last of all. The not quite seven year old groom is led out by his richly attired father, his own crimson doublet decorated with embroidered leaves. Gale brings out Posy amidst a swell of music, the little bride bedecked in a gown of silver with a pretty band of pearls in her hair. Gale hovers anxiously behind her throughout the ceremony and Madge cannot stop her heart from squeezing.

_Oh Gale_

Henry fumbles with the ring and looks rather disgusted at the idea of kissing his new wife, while Posy pouts throughout, but finally the ceremony ends and the newlyweds leave the chapel hand in hand. Katniss rises to follow them and so too do the rest of the guests, ready to feast and dance all night long. Marvel takes Madge’s arm, his fingers hot and leans in close, his breath kissing her ear.

“Soon, my sweet sister, we too shall stand before a priest.”

Madge does not answer him, cannot. She tries to keep her fear at bay with the reassurance that Katniss prefers Gale, but that offers little comfort. _She may prefer Gale, but if Marvel’s the only one asking…_

_No, Gale is fond of me. Perhaps more than fond._

_Katniss will never agree to Marvel’s suit._

_(she can’t)_

* * *

 

Madge moves through a stately bassedance with Marvel while Gale partners his mother and she cannot help but watch him, eyes tracing over his every line. _Will we marry Gale? I wonder what kind of husband you’ll be. A good one, I think._

_(faster Gale faster)_

(Madge shakes her head until the memory recedes)

Gale dances with Posy next and then his two sisters-in-law and Madge feels an odd swirling in her stomach, the idea of a future with Gale starting to expand behind her eyes. _This is what I’ve been working towards and now it’s finally here. I shall be safe, Mother shall be safe. And we shall have power, real power, power Gale will lovingly give._

_So why I do feel so…strange?_

The dance comes to an end and Gale turns to Madge, a bright smile on his face that fills her with heat.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Madge?” he asks, eyes shining and Madge curtsies, her own smile glowing.

“Of course,” she says and his grin widens. He takes her hand in his and leads her out onto the dance floor, the other couples already moving through a gaillard.

“You know, Posy was overjoyed at your compliments about her dress. I honestly thought she might pass out from the excitement when she told me about it,” he laughs and Madge smiles fondly.

“Well, it’s all true. She’s adorable, I just want to hug her and never let go,” she admits and then flushes in embarrassment. _What was that?_ When she finally looks back at Gale, he is smiling, a soft, warm kind of smile that makes her skin burn.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says and something flutters beneath her ribs. His words sink in and she frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, just that I have to go up north to see to my properties. I’ve been away a very long time, they might have burned down for all I know,” he jokes but Madge does not smile, her good mood plummeting.

“How long will you be gone?” she asks in genuine dismay and Gale squeezes her hand.

“Not too long I think, there’s always so much that needs to be done here.”

Madge nods and tries not to think about how much ground Marvel may gain with Gale so far away. Worse, what if Gale should find someone else while they are apart? He might forget all about her.

_(faster Gale faster)_

_(God ye_ s)

“Well, I hope you will not be gone from us for too long, Lord Gale,” she manages, disappointed and hollow. He squeezes her hand again.

“I hope so too.”

He spins her and a thoughtful look comes over his face, in contrast to her morose expression.

“Perhaps, and I hope you do not think me too forward for asking, I might write to you?”

Madge looks up at him in surprise and he grins a little nervously.

“The Queen is not the best at correspondence, but I should like to be kept apprised of court happenings, if of course, you think you will have the time. I know you are very busy.”

Madge smiles widely, a rush of hope filling her up. He cannot forget her if they are in contact during his absence and who knows? Perhaps he will write to Katniss and let her know just how close they still are. That should stall any hope of Marvel’s.

“I would be most delighted to, Sir Gale. Indeed, I do hope you will keep me informed as to which of your castles are still standing.”

Gale grins a little crookedly and her knees suddenly feel weak.

“It’s a deal then,” he says, twirling her again.

_a deal with the devil, some might say_

_(but then, which of us is the devil?)_

* * *

 

They may be cousins by marriage, but Madge knows it wouldn’t be particularly seemly of her to see Gale off. Instead she watches him ride away from a window, looking quite fetching in deep forest green. She sends a page off with a quick note for him, a little thing about how she hopes he will have a good journey and that she cannot wait to hear from him. She sees him read it, sees him grin and she smiles a little herself, her stomach tying itself in knots.

She makes her way back to Katniss’ chambers when he’s left and knows that even without him here, that does not mean she cannot further her goals. Gale might not give Katniss any reason to continuing supporting their potential marriage, but that doesn’t mean Madge cannot. She will have to be subtle of course, but she will make certain Katniss has no reason to switch her allegiance to Marvel’s cause.

She is set upon Gale and she will have him as her husband.

(for more reasons, perhaps, than even she would admit)

* * *

 

“I think I’ve finally settled on a badge of my own,” Madge says confidently and Annie looks over in curiosity.

“Oh?”

Madge nods.

“Yes. I shall have my father’s bell, paired with a strawberry.”

Annie stands from where she’d been mending the hem of one of Madge’s gowns and heads over, coming to stand by Madge’s shoulder. She looks down at all of Madge’s crude sketches and nods.

“I should have guessed it’d be a strawberry,” she teases and Madge sticks out her tongue.

“I did choose it for the meaning, you know.”

“Oh really?” Annie asks, eyebrows up.

“Yes,” Madge says with a mock glare, “Berries as a whole mean liberty, felicity and peace while strawberries specifically mean hope and joy.”

“Very nice.”

“I think so. And what about you, have you settled on a badge?”

“Oh, uh, yes,” Annie says, heading back over to her work. “I think, a dolphin maybe. With a crown of rosemary.”

Madge nods as Annie picks up the dress.

“That sounds lovely,” she says and Annie smiles, but there’s something a little sad in the corner. Madge looks at her with a frown but doesn’t prod. Instead she waits until she is alone in bed that night and opens up her heraldry book, scanning quickly through the pages.

“Dolphin,” she reads, “swiftness, diligence, salvation, charity and love. Well that’s nice. Now, rosemary, rosemary, ah rosemary! Fidelity, loyalty, enduring love and remembrance. Oh.”

Madge squeezes the book and _oh oh oh_. _No wonder she looked so sad_. She looks out her window at the moon and _wherever you are Finnick, please tell me you love her just as much_.

* * *

 

(Annie doesn’t sleep much that night, instead she stitches her newfound badge onto her pillow, right beside a wyvern made of silver thread.

_We’ll be together again someday Finnick, I believe that)_

_(I have to)_

* * *

 

_Dear Lady Madge,_

_I most heartily commend myself to you and am happy to report that I have arrived in Cheshire without trouble. My first stop is Kingsley Castle and I am pleased to say it is still standing. To be entirely fair, this was the one I was least concerned about, as we did pay it a visit during ~~Katniss’~~ the Queen’s progress. This is in fact only the second time I’ve been here, can you believe it? It was a gift from ~~Kat~~ the Queen and that stop on her progress was the only chance I’ve had to see it. It seems to be a nice enough place and running smoothly, so I do not think I will tarry here very long. I am off to Yorkshire next and that is where most of my property is, in fact, it is where I did most of my growing up. I must confess I have missed it all these long months away. It will be good to be home, if only briefly. But enough about me, what is happening in London? Any news? Any scandals? And how is Posy taking to her married life? I’ve written her, but I know from past experiences that she is not the most informative of correspondents. I would ask after Rory, but I think it a safe bet that he still despises every part of being wed. Not that I can understand why, I can see no cause for misery in Philippa, but then, I’m not twelve. At least Vick doesn’t seem too upset. I suppose one sibling out of three is better than none. And what of Marvel? Has he secured himself a wife? He has been hinting rather heavily that he has a bride in mind, has he wooed her? You must be tired of all my questions, so here is my last one. How are you, Lady Madge? I hope you have been well and things at court have not been too exciting, though I find myself doubting that quite a bit._

_I hope this letter finds you in good spirits, yours faithfully,_

_G of Salisbury_

_My good Earl of Salisbury,_

_I send this to you accompanied with well wishes and prayers for a pleasant and safe journey. I am indeed in good health, thanks be to the Lord, and I pray that you are as well. I am most happy to hear nothing is amiss up in Cheshire, though I do not envy your trip farther north. It is cold enough here in London, I cannot imagine how frigid it will be in Yorkshire. I know you will think me foolish, but please do me the favor of dressing quite warmly. I would sleep much more soundly if you did. Thank you in advance for your consideration._

_Rory is still opposed to Philippa, but I would not worry overmuch. Lady Primrose is fully committed to making them get along and I have full faith in her. Why, just yesterday Rory appeared only slightly grudging when inviting Philippa to a round of cards, which is certainly an improvement. Posy too seems to be warming up to Henry, as they both share a love of cuddly animals. In fact, I think they have adopted a kitten. His name is Booties. As for Marvel, if he has procured a wife, he has not done so publicly. As far as I am aware, he is still just as unwed as when you left._

_I can understand your yearning to be home, I too often miss Bedford Castle. We moved around very little when I was a child and I have always considered Bedford to be home. I am hoping to one day soon persuade Haymitch to move us there, at least for a little while._

_I can think of no new scandals to report, unless you count Glimmer Mowbray bursting into tears in the Great Hall when Lord Howard accidentally got soup on her new sleeve at dinner. It was quite the trauma._

_I look forward to your next letter, yours truly,_

_Lady Madge of Bedford_

* * *

 

Katniss hosts a sort of reception, invitations sent out to any noble or knight who wishes to attend. The whole court is abuzz with what its purpose could be and Madge cannot help the tight bundle of nerves she can feel in her chest. She joins everyone else in the Great Hall, Katniss in royal blue and seated on her gilt edged throne. Servers offer refreshments and everyone engages in idle chitchat, but Madge can barely concentrate on Marvel’s words, her mind wrapped up in why Katniss would have called them all here.

_What could it be?_

“And then he fell right off his horse!” Marvel chortles and Madge laughs even though she has no idea what he’s talking about. A sudden hush settles over the room, interrupting Marvel’s next anecdote and Madge feels her throat squeeze. She follows everyone’s gaze to see Katniss has risen from her throne.

“We have glad tidings to announce,” she tells them and Duchess Elizabeth’s smile turns smug. Madge bites her lip. _She’s arranged a marriage for someone else, but who?_ She thinks of Gale up in Yorkshire, a fist closing over her heart. _Please not him, please not him._

“We wish to announce the betrothal of our most beloved sister, Lady Primrose.”

Madge gasps a little and Katniss beckons Prim forward. They stand together, Prim smiling brightly and _oh Prim; I wonder how far away you’ll go._

“In a few months time, she will wed His Grace the Duke of Buckingham.”

Madge feels her mouth pop open and she looks at Duchess Elizabeth, whose expression is entirely thunderstruck. Darius Stafford, the seventeen year old Duke of Buckingham, bows to the assembled nobles with a jovial expression and Katniss smiles somewhat tightly, but there’s something in her eyes a little like triumph. Her mother beside her is fuming, a blotchy red climbing up her neck.

 _Well,_ Madge thinks, _Katniss has certainly put the Duchess in her place._

_But is that a good thing? Or bad?_

* * *

 

(Annie hears from one of the serving boys that the Queen’s sister is going to marry the Duke of Buckingham and has to clap a hand to her mouth to keep from puking. She staggers back to her room, memories she has tried so hard to repress slinking back into her mind, covering her up like cobwebs and rusty chains.

_My lady, wake up, wake up!_

_What...what is it?_

_There are men here, an army. They’re burning everything!_

She collapses into her bed and she can smell it still, the fires, can still hear the screaming. She can see the Stafford knot, sigil of the Dukes of Buckingham, on every soldier as they rampage, cutting down her grooms and clerks and servants, loading valuables up into carts and dragging off shrieking maids. She remembers standing there in horror, watching the world collapse around her.

_Help me! God help me!_

_Have mercy, please! Please, have mercy on us, I beg you!_

_No! Let go of me, let go!_

Annie covers her ears with her hands but the voices don’t stop, the mayhem and carnage still flooding behind her eyes. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ she thinks through her tears and she remembers running through the chaos, desperate to find the Duke. He was the only one who could stop this madness and she had to believe he would. He was young, younger even than her and his father and grandfather had both died for Lancaster, even if he now fought for York. He must be trying to prove his loyalty, but he would stop if she asked, if she pleaded.

She remembers finding him, remembers throwing herself on her knees and begging, hands clasped and face wet with tears. She’d stayed there for over an hour but his expression had never changed, no hint of kindness in that hard mask. She’d pleaded for mercy, clemency but he’d given her none.

Annie presses her face into her pillow, feels the embroidery against her cheeks and she can still feel the bruise on her arm from where he’d grabbed her. He’d yanked her up, so close she can still smell the veal on his breath.

 _You are a traitor’s spawn and your father is doing the Devil’s work,_ he’d whispered, voice like ice _, There shall be no mercy for any of you. You must pay for your treachery._

He’d dragged her out into the courtyard in nothing but her nightgown and the soldiers there had laughed and jeered, and it echoes now inside of her, each crude remark and bawdy joke. She can still feel their hands on her as she passed, each one grabbing and fondling whatever they could reach. The Duke had forced her up onto his horse and she remembers as they rode away, remembers her last sight of Hedingham Castle, fires licking up its walls and smoke wafting past its turrets.

_Help us! Help us please!_

_Lord deliver us!_

_God, God, God_

Annie can barely breathe through her sobs, her nails drawing blood from where she digs them into her head and _why can’t I forget? Why won’t these nightmares finally fade?_

He never let her change the whole way to London and when they’d finally reached the capital, he’d thrown her in a cell and locked the door. She had been so sure he would kill her and everyday sitting in the dark she’d been sure the executioner would come for her, even though she’d never committed any crime. No one would answer any of her questions and she sometimes wondered if the Duke had forgotten about her, the guards who fed her being the only people she ever saw.

There was no reason for him to lock her up, no reason to keep her a prisoner and _they’ll never let me out, I’m going to die here._

Annie slides to the floor, a heaving mess, her pillow clutched to her chest.

_You are no one now Anne, but I can get you out of here if you agree to serve my step-daughter._

She can remember the door opening, remembers the sad sad look on Lord Haymitch’s face as he’d knelt beside her.

_Her name is Madge, she’s about your age and her father fought with yours. I think she will be a good friend to you._

She remembers the way he’d placed his cloak around her shaking shoulders, remembers how the light from the hall had shone all around him _._

_And I’m sorry about all of this._

_I’m so very sorry_ )

* * *

 

Madge and Prim stand awkwardly in the hall as Katniss and Duchess Elizabeth fight, their words harsh and furious.

“How dare you Katniss! How dare you!”

“How dare _you_ , Mother! I am Queen here!”

“You are a fool! An idiot girl who will not be Queen for very much longer, thanks to your own stupidity!”

“Get out! I will suffer this abuse no longer!”

“You will rue this day Katniss, do you hear me? You will rue it!”

“ _Get out_!”

Duchess Elizabeth comes flying out, her face red with rage. She storms past them into the hall and Katniss slams the door behind her, so hard a vase topples from a table. It crashes to the floor and Prim starts to cry, sobbing miserably into her hands. Madge wraps her in a hug and _is this the beginning of the end? Is the Yorkist curse finally to be lifted?_

_And what happens if it does?_

* * *

 

The whole court moves back to Westminster (all except Duchess Elizabeth, who, rumor has it, has been sent off to one of her late husband’s castles), regardless of the slush and snow and sleet. The sky is an ugly gray when they set out, the wind bitter and Madge can feel that same bleakness inside herself, black dread bubbling inside of her at their imminent return to Westminster.

As one of only two ladies in waiting to the Queen, she has her hands full ensuring Katniss’ things are properly unpacked once they arrive. The work is a blessing in a sense, distracting her from where they are and the sour memories that linger there. The one year anniversary of Katniss’ victory is looming and with it, the anniversary of her father’s death. Madge’s whole body throbs with the thought of it and she prays each and every night that he has found the peace in paradise he could not find in life.

And in the dark where no one can see her, she whispers a promise.

_I will avenge you father, I swear._

* * *

 

March creeps in with muddy weather and endless rainfalls and when Madge wakes up on her birthday, it takes her a moment before she realizes _I am sixteen today._

She cannot help but think back to her last birthday as she stares up at the ceiling, that melancholy day in the waning moments of the war. A year later and the war is done and Madge has lost. The sharp sting has softened somewhat, but still, old resentment, rage and despair boil in her blood, a toxic reminder of all she has lost.

She tells herself all will be well soon, that she has a plan, one that will change everything. _I am going to avenge you Father, Mother, Annie. I will avenge us all._ She will marry Gale, she will use his influence to keep her loved ones safe and somehow, someway, she will set the King free and restore Lancaster to power.

 _It has been a year since my birthday and soon a year since our defeat. A year from now_ , she swears, _everything will be different_.

(she is right of course, but she’d never guess just how different)

* * *

 

_Dear Madge,_

_Your last few letters have been ever so informative, I feel as if I am there in London instead of here in Yorkshire. Allow me to extend my most heartfelt thanks. You are invaluable truly; I shall have to do something very special for you when I return, to ensure you are properly rewarded for such diligence. You will be pleased to hear that my latest stop of Pickering Castle is still in good order. I am three for three so far. Not bad at all. My next stop is the one I’m most excited about, home to Middleham! You’d love it I think, but then, I am probably somewhat biased. It was my father’s favourite of all our castles and though we moved around as I grew up, this was always our primary residence. It is our crown jewel and indeed, I have yet to find anywhere better. It is not as grand as some of Queen Katniss’ palaces, but it has always come first in my heart. I suppose that must be how you feel about Bedford Castle. If you like, I could always put a word in with Haymitch; suggest that it might be a lovely place to stay, at least for a while. You know, and I cannot believe it has taken me so long to mention this, Rory recently sent me a letter and as baffling as it is, I think it may have included a compliment towards Philippa. Now, to be fair, it was a rather backhanded compliment, but still, I never thought I’d see the day. To quote “Vick’s still rubbish at cards, it’s worse than playing against Posy. I keep trying to teach him, but he’s hopeless. Even Philippa picked it up faster than him.” Like I said, not the most romantic of compliments, but I daresay we’re making progress. On a lighter note, Posy has promised that if Booties has babies, one will be named in my honour. Apparently she had Henry swear on it, as they both share custody of course. It’s good to know they’re getting along better, even if she still refers to him as “a dirty boy that spends too much time playing in the mud”. I wonder, can you confirm this? Does Henry spend an unnatural amount of time rolling in mud? I find myself oddly curious about it. Marvel, meanwhile, continues to assure me that he has found the perfect bride, one that will have me seething with jealousy. I am curious, I admit, but I am loathe to ask him and give him the satisfaction. You are certain you have heard nothing? He is my cousin and I love him, of course, but he does have a particular skill at bringing out my spitefulness. My mother would insist I go to confession and repent for such ill feeling towards my kinsman and I will, probably. I mean, I am sorry about feeling like this, but I fear it may be a simple consequence of our cousinly relations. I do not think we can help a bit of competition. And anyway, I should probably only repent if I plan on never doing it again, and I have little faith I will be able to resist an opportunity for a little one-upmanship. I am wicked certainly, but alas, I am only human and we are incapable of perfection. Marvel and I have always knocked heads, but in the end, I would die for him in a second. That should make up for it, shouldn’t it? I have rambled on for too long probably, so I will end this here._

_Yours most faithfully,_

_Gale of Salisbury_

 

_Sir Gale,_

_Never apologize for writing too much, I always enjoy every word. I am glad I have been of service, though there is no need for recompense. I have been happy to do it. I am, of course, entirely joyful that Pickering has not burned down in your absence and even more pleased that you will soon be home at Middleham. Though I know it is sinful, I must say I am a tad envious of your fortune in this matter. And if you do truly wish to reward my service, I would most graciously accept your word in Haymitch’s ear. It is a dream of mine, to see Bedford again._

_As for your wickedness, it appears I too have need of repentance. You may wish to one-up Marvel, but I have fallen prey to envy. Perhaps we should both attend confession together._

_I do not think Henry spends any more time than any other boy in the mud, though I am no expert. He does play out in the yard most days and it does render him filthy, but this has always appeared to me as the usual exuberance of young boys. I look forward to meeting your namesake should it arrive, as I am sure Little Gale will be utterly adorable._

_I am glad to hear of Rory’s compliment and I am sure Prim would be as well. I am even more pleased to report that I have taken it upon myself to tutor Vick in card playing and he has shown marked improvement. Soon he shall be trouncing them all, I am sure._

_Marvel is still as much a bachelor as always, if he is conducting marriage negotiations, he is keeping them very quiet. I do not believe he would invent a bride but I have entirely no idea who it might be. I have inquired many times, but he remains tight lipped. My apologies._

_As I’m sure you have already been made aware, the negotiations for a treaty with the Scots has again stalled. Reliable reports say we were close this time, but alas, nothing has come of it. The Scottish ambassador has left in somewhat of a huff after a private audience with the Queen, I must confess I have no idea what passed between them. A rumor is rife at court that Her Majesty might marry the King’s brother to smooth out tensions, but I consider this to be naught but gossip. The Duke of Albany is only fourteen and further, I do not think the English lords would be too keen to have a Scottish king upon their throne. The Queen has given no indication that she considers anything of the sort, so, at least for the time being, I must classify this as entirely fictitious._

_A renowned painter from Italy has been commissioned to paint Her Majesty’s portrait and I for one am very excited to see it. I hear he is greatly skilled._

_I would write more, but the Queen is calling._

_I hope to hear from you soon,_

_Madge of B_

_Madge,_

_I apologize for the manner of this letter, but I have little time. I am just about to move on to Middleham, but I did not want to wait for my arrival there to write you a response. I cannot see you needing repentance my lady; you are far too kind for any sin. I am more than happy to speak to Haymitch; I know how tragic it is to be away from home. I must extend my heartfelt thanks for your aid to Vick, I am fully confident that he will be an expert in no time under your guidance. I am not surprised things haven’t worked out with the Scots, do they ever? I am sure Little Gale will be quite adorable, after all, he is a Gale. I must go now, but on one final note, I fully intend to pay back your kindness in writing to me. You may be happy to do it, but I doubt it is as happy as I am to receive it._

_Most faithfully,_

_Gale_

* * *

 

Ever since Prim’s betrothal, there has been an air of melancholy hanging around Katniss, one even heavier than usual. Madge doesn’t care (right? of course not), but it’s hard spending everyday looking at Katniss’ sad eyes. One afternoon when Prim has gone falconing with Philippa and Rory, Madge decides it is time to do something to cheer her.

“I must say, your Majesty, that I am quite glad Lady Primrose will not be leaving us,” she says as she embroiders an undershirt and Katniss turns from the window to look at her. There is a defeated sort of exhaustion on her face, one that feels like a clamp on Madge’s heart.

“My mother is not so pleased.”

Madge is not sure what to say to that, after all, she wasn’t meant to overhear any of their quarrels. The silence between them is tense and Madge curses herself. _You were supposed to be making her feel better, not making everything worse._

“Gale writes of you often,” Katniss says suddenly and Madge feels a flush climb her cheeks.

“Does he?” she asks, a tiny thrill burrowing in her stomach.

“Yes. I think he likes you very much.”

“Oh,” Madge breathes happily, biting her lip around a smile.

“Do you like him?” Katniss asks and Madge’s eyes widen.

“Oh, I-”

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me, wasn’t it?” Katniss asks and Madge hurriedly shakes her head.

“No, no, of course not, Your Majesty-”

“Yes it was, you’re just not allowed to say so. No one is.”

Madeg opens her mouth but doesn’t know what to say. _How different she is from Coriolanus…how very very different._

“I am sorry Lady Madge, forget I asked. Would you mind going to see the cook? I am curious as to what we shall be having for supper.”

Madge nods, a tragic sort of sympathy filling her stomach.

“Of course, your Majesty.”

Katniss nods, tries to smile and then turns back to the window. Madge stands to leave and she looks back just before she’s out the door. She stares at Katniss’ reflection in the glass and _I should be pleased, shouldn’t I? To see my enemy so unhappy?_

_So why aren’t I?_

* * *

 

“Would you like to come riding with Rory, Philippa and I?”

It had seemed like such a simple request and Madge, desperate to remain in good standing with the Yorkists, had accepted. But now, sitting on her horse in a breezy drizzle while Rory and Philippa bicker, she’s beginning to think Prim only asked her along so she might have someone to suffer with.

“I’m so jealous of Gale. I wish I was old enough to go to my own properties alone,” Rory says and Philippa scoffs.

“I wouldn’t get too excited, it’s not like it’ll be anytime soon.”

Rory scowls and Prim sends Madge a grimace.

“I’m almost old enough,” he insists and Philippa rolls her eyes.

“You’re twelve.”

“Thirteen,” Rory counters and Madge feels a headache coming on.

“Twelve,” Philippa repeats, “you’re birthday isn’t for another two months.”

Rory inhales angrily.

“Close enough,” he snaps and Philippa gives him an unimpressed look.

“Well, I’m thirteen,” she says loftily, tossing her pretty brown hair over her shoulder. Rory scowls some more.

“By four days,” he retorts.

“Oh, I had no idea. I’m so sorry, Lady Philippa. Happy birthday,” Madge says and Philippa smiles.

“Thank you, it’s so nice to have someone wish you a happy birthday,” she says, fixing Rory with a glare. He makes an aggravated noise.

“How was I supposed to know it was your birthday if you didn’t tell me?”

A large slushy drop of water slides from the brim of Madge’s hat onto her face, leaving a cold trail all the way to the tip of her nose. She sighs.

“You could have asked.”

Rory opens his mouth but Prim hastily cuts him off.

“I wonder who could reach that tree over there first?” she asks and Rory and Philippa immediately lock eyes.

“Me!” Rory says, already starting off.

“As if!” Philippa calls, galloping after him. Prim slumps in her saddle.

“They’re impossible,” she says and Madge bites her lip.

“Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you.”

“Ugh, I’ve just about given up. Every time I think I’ve made progress, they go and prove me entirely wrong,” she complains, bringing her horse alongside Madge’s.

“Oh you’ve definitely made progress, at least they’re willing to do things together now,” Madge says, reaching over to pat Prim’s arm.

“Hah, does it really count if all they do is argue?”

“Well, some people do say that is a mark of hidden passion,” Madge offers and Prim snorts.

“The only thing they have a passion for is infuriating each other.”

Madge can’t help but laugh and Prim giggles, pushing a few damp strands of hair out of her face.

“And speaking of passion,” Madge says with a grin, “how are things with your betrothed?”

Prim’s pale face turns instantly pink.

“Oh, oh it’s…well,” she trails off, giggling shyly and Madge nudges her.

“Oh come on. He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

Prim ducks her heads, cheeks burning darker but nods quickly.

“Yes, he is quite.”

“He’s taken you for quite a few walks, hasn’t he?” Madge asks, lifting an eyebrow and Prim giggles some more.

“Yes, he thinks we should get to know each other.”

“And?”

Prim sighs dreamily.

“And oh, he’s marvelous Madge. Truly, he’s charming and handsome and funny, and he’s kind and oh, he’s just lovely.”

“Well, somebody’s smitten” Madge teases and Prim’s eyes widen, her cheeks red as a Lancastrian rose.

“Oh, well…” she giggles and Madge laughs a little.

“Oh don’t be shy, who could blame you? He sounds perfect.”

Prim nods excitedly.

“Oh he is, look what he just gave me,” she says, pulling off her glove. On her finger is a gold band set with a large, heavy ruby. Madge nods in appreciation.

“It’s beautiful.”

Prim cradles it next to her heart but then her happy expression falls.

“You don’t think…you don’t think he’ll find me too young?” she asks quietly, eyes wide and worried.

Madge frowns and squeezes her arm.

“Nonsense, you’re almost fourteen. Most are considered a woman by then.”

Prim nods slowly and bites her lip.

“I just…I’d hate to disappoint him.”

Madge gives her her sternest look.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What could he have to be upset about? You are the Queen’s sister, beautiful, sweet and one of loveliest people I’ve ever met. If he is not delirious with joy, than I will have to consider him deranged.”

Prim laughs and Madge gives her arm another comforting squeeze.

“No more worrying, alright? You are Darius will be very happy together, I’m sure. In fact, I hope when my time comes, I will be as well matched as the two of you.”

“Of course you will, after all, you’re going to marry Gale, aren’t you?”

Madge’s eyes widen and Prim blushes.

“It’s just…it’s so obvious how much he fancies you and Katniss approves and…and you like him too, don’t you?”

Madge feels her face warm and _this is just like with Katniss. That has to mean they’re right about Gale, doesn’t it?_

“It’s obvious, you know, when he looks at you. I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that. And he’s never bothered to spend so much time with a girl that wasn’t Posy or Katniss, even I’ve not had so much attention from him and I’ve known him all my life,” Prim rambles and Madge feels her stomach flip over. “And he hates letter writing you know, hates it. Auntie Hazelle always has to nag him to make sure he answers all her letters, he’s always all _what do I say? Nothing enough happens to write about, I’m not ever doing anything exciting._ That’s ridiculous of course, but he’s always been the worst, he usually writes only the shortest little things, if he even answers at all. But he writes to you every week and what’s more, I’ve seen how fat some of those letters are when the courier brings them.”

Madge’s face feels like it’s been set aflame and her stomach is like a stormy sea, tossing and turning. Prim’s tone is serious when she continues.

“You’ve caught my cousin by the heart, Lady Madge. Please tell me he has not fallen alone.”

Madge feels guilt like a dagger in her chest, but there is something else too, a pleasant warmth she cannot decipher.

“Who would not admire him?” she begins, unable to look Prim in the eye. “He is a valiant warrior, a noble Earl, one of the Queen’s most trusted advisors. He has vast wealth and land, but he is also most comely and an excellent hunter. He is…” she trails off, a tight ball of _something_ in her chest. All those things are true of course, but Madge bites her lip, that ball of _something_ growing ever larger. _He is…he is what?_

She remembers him with Posy, the way he’d laughed with her, the way he’d smiled, all his worries melting away.

“He is kind and caring,” she starts again, voice growing stronger.

She remembers his motto and how he’d looked as he spoke of his father that day at Windsor.

“He believes in truth and justice, he loves his family very, very much.”

She remembers the book he’d given her, how he’d paid attention to her interest even when he hated her.

“He is generous and brave. Stubborn, but always honest. He is a good man. A very good man.”

Madge feels a strange urge to cry and Prim smiles a little knowingly.

“I’m glad you think so. Gale could not have chosen a better lady,” she says and suddenly grins wickedly. “And hopefully soon, he shall make you his countess.”

Madge ducks her head in embarrassment.

“Oh hush you,” she says, but there is laughter in her voice.

“Why? You know, I’ll be glad to have you as my cousin, officially. Through Haymitch, you’re only my first cousin once removed, that’s much too distant a relation,” Prim says, taking her hand. Madge smiles, cannot help it, and though the sky is still gloomy, she feels almost as if the sun is beaming down directly on her.

(here is a secret, one Madge keeps even from herself)

(the more time she spends with these Yorkists, the less she hates them)

(in fact, the more time she spends with them, the more she begins to think maybe Coriolanus is the only one deserving of her hate)

(but this is a secret, one she’d never tell, not even to herself)

* * *

 

_Dear Gale,_

_Have you reached Penrith? I hope all is well there and providence has continued to favor you. The weather here has been quite depressing, is it so awful up north? I suppose it must be colder, but is it so wet and miserable? Just the other day in fact, I went riding with Rory, Philippa and Prim and it was just dreadful. Grey, damp and chilly, ugh. I was sodden through in moments, it’s a miracle we didn’t catch our deaths._

_Speaking of that ride in the woods, I’ve discovered Prim is very much besotted with her soon to be husband. She was instantly aflutter at the mere mention of him. I am quite happy for them of course, I would hate for her to marry a man she could not love. Moreover, I am very glad she will be staying in England with us, rather than going overseas. I know it may have meant a grander match, but then, a duke with royal blood is nothing to shrug at. It is rather selfish of me perhaps, to want her here rather than far away with a king as husband, but then, they do appear to be quite fond of each other, so at least my joy can be for her as much as it is for all of us._

_Prim herself is rather curious about my own marriage plans, though I suspect her happy state has left her hoping we will all be as fortunate. She also expressed interest in your marital future and I must say, I too am curious. Is there any lucky lady who has caught your eye? I should think her the most fortunate woman in all the land if she has won your heart. And before you accuse me of only caring about material matters, know that I made a rather embarrassing speech about your qualities to Prim, though do not ask me to repeat it, I am mortified enough as is._

_My mother would be utterly appalled if she knew I was asking you such questions, it is indeed very unladylike. I do hope you do not think less of me for it; I could never forgive myself if I did something to tarnish your opinion of me._

_You are probably laughing at me now, behaving as foolishly as I am, so let us talk now of less heavy matters. You should know Rory is quite outraged due to Vick destroying him entirely at cards last night. It was a slaughter, truly. My tutoring appears to have borne fruit. Philippa was also quite pleased, which left Prim rather cross. She is as determined as ever to see them love each other, regardless of their resistance. I am not too worried, they are still young; they have plenty of time to grow an affection. I hope they do. Perhaps it is silly of me, but I have always been a romantic. I should wish everyone to find love in their marriages. I know I have always dreamt of a happy marriage to a husband I love._

_Now that I have thoroughly bored you with what Marvel would surely deem women’s talk, I shall bid you adieu. I wish there were more exciting things to report but nothing much has happened this week, I blame the cold. No one can possibly get up to anything when their very bones are shivering. Well, unless you count Glimmer Mowbray shopping around for a husband. If you’re interested, she has dropped some none too subtle hints that you are the very top of her list. She is of good family and quite pretty, you could certainly do much worse. I would not recommend her manners, but then, perhaps I have only caught her on bad days._

_Alright, enough is enough! I’ve spoken of nothing but marriage, what an impression I must have made!_

_Forgive me good sir, yours affectionately,_

_Madge_

_Dearest Madge,_

_You needn’t apologize at all. Whatever topic you wish to write of, I am more than happy to read about. And I would never laugh at you, only with you. Nor do I think less of you, I could never. You may be entirely candid with me Madge, you need fear no censure. I shall keep the Lady Mowbray’s offer under consideration, but I do not think it likely I will accept. I am sure her charms are considerable of course, but I must agree with you, I too would like love in my marriage. I always dreamt of having a marriage like my parents’, my father always told me there was nothing better in life than to spend it with the woman you loved. I think he is right. As for Penrith, yes I have arrived and thankfully, all is well here. It is a rather impressive place; my father built it to defend against Scottish raids. The staff was a bit startled to see me, clearly I should have written ahead. The weather is a frozen mess; I fear you would definitely disapprove. It has snowed ceaselessly and the winds are fierce. I am used to colder weather, but even I must admit it is rather unpleasant this time around. Of course, I shall eventually move even farther north into Northumberland, so I must steel myself against the frigidness to come. You will be happy to know that I am bundling myself warmly as you requested. My mother has also expressed concerns that I may foolishly allow myself to freeze, please give her my assurances that I have absolutely no plans to do so, After all, I have given you my word and I never break my word. It is good to hear Darius and Prim are getting on, I have always liked him. I am glad too to hear she will be staying with us, I would not wish to see any of my family move so far away. And since you asked me, have you any plans for wedded bliss? Any particular gentleman tickling your fancy? If there is, make sure he is aware of how lucky he will be to have you as a wife. I cannot imagine any bride could bring her husband more, not just in wealth, but in personality as well. And I must say, I am offended you think I would accuse you of being mercenary. Though I am rather curious as to what you said to Prim. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to regale with what it is about me you find appreciable? I promise to respond in kind. I have written to Haymitch about Bedford, specifically how I have heard it is a lovely place and I would not mind paying him a visit should he move his household there. I expect he will soon respond and I am sure my hint and yours will soon encourage him to move you there, at least for a while. Bedford Castle will be yours upon marriage and I cannot imagine any husband would refuse you time there, I know I could not. It is growing late here and the frost rather biting, so I think I shall have to retire for the evening. I promise to write again tomorrow, I have a ludicrous story to relate about a man and a pig I encountered on the road, you won’t believe it._

_I hope you are warm, yours ever faithfully,_

_Gale_

* * *

 

(Gale seals her letter and smiles to himself. He thinks back to her words _I should think her the most fortunate woman in all the land if she has won your heart_ and he hopes she means it.

He can imagine Thom before him; can imagine his wide eyed look and what he’d say if he knew what Gale was thinking. _Have you descended into complete lunacy? She is a Lancastrian, the niece of Coriolanus himself! How can you even consider her?_

At any point prior to now, Gale would certainly have agreed with imaginary-Thom, would have said much the same thing. But, mad as it is, Gale is not sure he could consider anyone other than Madge. It has been a year since Katniss won the day, months since he looked at Madge and saw her, truly, and things have changed much since then. He has changed.

Perhaps he is a lunatic, but if he is, he is not sure he has ever enjoyed anything more)

( _Let me be mad,_ he thinks, _as long as I might mad with Madge_ )

(what a difference a few months can make)

* * *

 

Marvel invites her for a walk and though Madge would like nothing more than to refuse, she knows she cannot. He pets her arm as he leads her around the muddy, melting garden and Madge’s thoughts drift to Gale somewhere on the roads of Cumbria. She remembers when he took her for a tour of these very gardens and some might consider that the beginning.

(the beginning of what?)

“You know, I had a very special reason for bringing you out here,” Marvel begins and Madge is wrenched back to the present, her blood chilling.

“Oh?”

He smiles, green eyes glittering.

“Yes. I have been trying to arrange an audience with the Queen to discuss _us_ , but sadly, she is most busy. I was hoping that since you have so much more access to her, you might be able to convince Queen Katniss to see me. I am sure she would love to, after all, I am her dear cousin, one who has done much for her cause.”

Madge’s throat feels suddenly dry and she wonders if she’s imagining the threat in his tone.

“I will see what I can do,” she manages and he smirks, kissing each of her fingertips.

“See that you do,” he whispers.

(Madge has been afraid of a great many things in her life, but there is something about Marvel that terrifies her in a way nothing else ever has)

(not even Coriolanus)

* * *

 

(At least once a week, a letter arrives from the Earl of Salisbury.

Annie watches as Madge opens each one eagerly, a silly smile on her face and a cold feeling creeps over Annie’s skin. Madge looks forward to these letters in a way she never looked forward to the ones from her step-brother and there is a dread in Annie, a terror growing larger with every letter received and sent.

Madge reads each one several times, eyes sparkling and then she tucks them away in a pretty coffer on her desk. She writes him back immediately, cheeks pink and Annie knows what’s happening though God, she wishes she didn’t. 

Madge tells her everything, everything except for anything to do with Salisbury. For months now, they have been spending time together and yet Madge has never breathed a word about it, kept this one thing close to her chest. Why? Worse, and Annie knows it is wrong of her, but sometimes she sneaks just a peek at some of Gale of Salisbury’s letters and each one is less formal than the last, each one warmer and it is clear to see that this Gale is most happily infatuated with Madge. It comes across in every word he puts on paper and Annie wishes she could deny that Madge feels similarly, wishes with every fiber of her being, but she can’t)

(in all her life, Annie has never felt so betrayed)

* * *

 

“I have good news,” Haymitch announces as he enters his Duchess’ chambers. Madge has taken advantage of her rare free time to spend it with her mother and they both stop their embroidery at his words.

“And what news is that, my lord?” her mother asks and Madge feels a tightness in her belly. Haymitch tosses his hat aside and actually smiles, a sort of bright energy seeming to infuse him.

“Her Majesty has asked me to travel to France to negotiate with King Louis.”

He gives them a moment to digest this news and then continues on, his eyes almost sparkling.

“If I can secure a treaty with him, he will hand over the Lancastrians sheltering in his court and we can be free of their threat once and for all.”

There is something like excitement in his voice, something a little like jubilation and Madge feels as if a bucket of ice water has been upended on her head. _If he gets his hands on Cato…_

“I will pray for your success,” her mother says and Haymitch looks like he might burst with joy.

“I have been pushing for this for so long; I cannot believe she has finally agreed. Finally, we shall have peace.”

_Will we? And even if we do, will it be a peace worth having?_

* * *

 

It is mid April when another letter from Gale arrives and she opens it hastily, entirely unaware of Annie’s narrowed eyes.

_Dearest Madge,_

_I regret to inform you that this is most probably the last letter I shall be writing to you. But fear not, good lady! Instead of any letters, you shall have me in the flesh instead. I should like to think you will find that agreeable. Katniss has called me back to court and as much as I have enjoyed our correspondence, I think I shall enjoy being with you in person much more. I have missed everyone these two months away, though it has been so nice to be home again. The north truly is the best part of England (though do not tell the Londoners I have said so). Katniss has promised that once everything has settled down at court, I may return here on a more permanent basis and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about that day. Still, it will be good to see everyone again. I have been meaning for some time to have a proper garden done at Middleham and I was wondering if you might be willing to help me supervise it? I can think of no one better for the task. Sadly, it will probably take me a week or two to actually reach London, being that I am all the way up in Northumberland and hope to make a last stop at my manor of Bisham in Berkshire. I plan to spend most of that travelling, which is why I won’t be able to write. It is strange being here, as Marvel is everywhere. Not that I do not love my cousin, but truly, I have never seen so many peacock badges in all my life. It would be impossible, I think, to ever forget who was Earl of Northumberland. I have more I wish to say to you, much more, but I think I shall wait until I can say it to your face. As well, I have something for you; though do not bother to ask what, for I am determined to keep it a surprise._

_Ever faithfully,_

_Gale_

She reads it twice over and a smile lights her face, a happy bubble of excitement filling her up. _He’s coming back!_ She puts it with all his others and looks out her window at the pretty spring day, her spirits bright and soaring. She thinks back on his words and her insides grow warm, a pleasant heat kindling in her belly. Madge sinks onto her bed with a sigh and _I’ve missed you_ he wrote _, I shall enjoy being with you in person much more._

(not that she missed him of course)

(no, not at all)

* * *

 

Haymitch leaves a week later, the sky pale gray and spitting on their heads. He is eager and animated in a way Madge has never seen him and she feels the rain’s chill all the way to her toes.

_If Cato is locked away in the Tower…_

“Godspeed to you, my lord husband,” her mother says as they see him off and Madge nods absently, mind too thick with thought to manage any words of her own. Katniss is not present but Haymitch doesn’t seem to mind, his face bright like a noonday sun.

“This nightmare will soon be over,” he says confidently from atop his horse, a hint of almost awe in his voice. “I shall return, God willing, with a treaty of trade and friendship, a French husband for the Queen and the last of the Lancastrians.”

_But they aren’t the last of the Lancastrians, are they?_

_No. For better or for worse, there’s still us._

_(God help us)_

* * *

 

As soon as Haymitch and his entourage are gone, the entire court bursts into frenzied life.

It is like standing in the eye of as storm as the whole palace is scrubbed and cleaned and washed around her, the gardens pruned and weeded and brand new curtains hung over the windows. The city of London itself is swept and shined, white roses planted in every flower box and Katniss even commissions new jewels, picking out brooches, earrings and rings. Madge stares at all the activity, the new paint on the walls, the new rugs on the floor and the frantic shining of all the silverware, in utter bewilderment.

_What in the world is going on?_

“Oh Madge, there you are!” Prim calls, dashing down the hall towards her.

“What on Earth is going on?” she asks and Prim smiles in excitement.

“Oh, don’t you know? Peeta of Burgundy of coming at the head of a diplomatic mission.”

“Peeta of Burgundy?” Madge asks, still lost, and Prim nods eagerly.

“The youngest son of the Duke of Burgundy. We have never had a member of a ruling family come to visit, so everything has to be perfect!”

“Why wasn’t I told sooner?” Madge asks and cannot help the hint of annoyance in her tone.

“Oh,” Prim says, her mood seeming to drop, “well, we didn’t…we didn’t want you to mention it to Haymitch.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“Oh, well, it’s just…we didn’t want it to affect his negotiations,” Prim says with a false laugh. Madge frowns. _Something isn’t right here._

“But enough of that, you are needed in the Queen’s wardrobe. Peeta of Burgundy has already landed in Dover, he will be here in a matter of days and you must ensure every one of Katniss’ dresses are faultless. There is no time to waste!” Prim exclaims and hurries off. Madge watches her go and _something is definitely wrong here. But what?_

* * *

 

Two days later everyone is dressed in their very best, word having reached them that Peeta of Burgundy will be arriving in London that very afternoon.

Madge and Prim help Katniss into a magnificent black gown spangled with diamond stars and her prettiest crown, her skin dusted with gold and her hair woven with precious gems. She looks magnificent, every inch a queen but there is definitely worry in her eyes, but then, that isn’t a surprise. _This is her first real meeting with Europe’s rulers, it is no wonder she is nervous._

“Alright, Prim please go and ensure Peeta’s rooms are ready for him and Madge, check in with the cook will you? I want to be certain everything is ready for the feast tonight,” Katniss says, fidgeting with her dress. Madge and Prim curtsy, Katniss fiddling anxiously with her rings.

“Right away, Your Majesty,” they chorus and she barely seems to hear them, sending them off with a distracted smile. They both set off on their tasks and Madge feels almost as if she’ll be ill, Katniss’ worry seeming to have infected her too. _I wonder what this Peeta is like._

She arrives at the kitchens and the cook and all his staff look extremely harassed, but they assure her everything will be ready in time for this evening’s welcoming feast. Madge thanks them and makes her way to Katniss’ throne room, a darker worry coming to mind. _Haymitch is one of Katniss’ foremost advisors, they even call him “Queenmaker”. How could she have left him in the dark for this? Yes, they had argued over her lack of ladies, but that cannot be enough, can it? After all, she has trusted him to head the delegation to France._

_What is going on?_

“I wonder, what has the Queen’s lady so deep in thought?”

Madge blinks back into the moment and turns.

“Gale?’ she asks, so surprised she doesn’t even make use of the proper address. He grins and Madge’s eyes trace over him, taking in the windswept hair and sun tanned skin. He walks towards her and her legs feel oddly like jelly. _Is he taller?_

“Hello,” he says brightly, his smile growing. Madge feels her stomach flip over itself.

“You’re back,” she nearly whispers and she has the strangest urge to touch him, as if she does not believe he is real. He nods.

“Katniss wanted me here for Peeta of Burgundy’s arrival, so here I am. And as promised, I’ve brought you a gift.”

His eyes glow with excitement and Madge sinks into them for a moment, bubbles in her veins. She shakes her head.

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she begins, unsure exactly why she’s refusing and he laughs, her heart skipping in her chest.

“I most humbly beseech you to accept, Lady Madge. I will be heartbroken if you don’t.”

There is a teasing in his voice, but sincerity too and she feels so odd, seeing him again.

“Here,” he says gently, taking her hand and placing his gift in her palm. She looks down and gasps. It is a brooch made of gold and covered in white enamel, fashioned into the shape of a heart.

“It’s…it’s beautiful,” she breathes and Gale moves a little closer. He touches her cheek softly and she feels a fire light beneath her skin.

“Turn it over,” he whispers and she does, heart stopping at the words etched on the back.

_I am yours wholly._

“Lord Gale, I…”

“Gale! Gale, is that you? Katniss was worried you wouldn’t get here in time,” Prim’s voice calls from down the hall and Gale moves away, Madge feeling as if she might fall over.

“It’s me. I’m here, don’t worry,” he calls back and then he turns to Madge.

“May I escort you to the hall?” he asks and Madge nods, feeling strangely out of breath. He offers her his arm and she takes it, her fingers closing around his brooch.

 _I am yours wholly_.

* * *

 

Madge takes her position with Prim and Gale moves to stand beside Katniss, all of them prickling with anxiety as they wait for Peeta. Madge feels her hand burning where it holds her new brooch and she cannot get those words out of her head. _I am yours wholly._

“His Grace, Lord Peeta of Burgundy!” a herald bellows, horns blaring and Madge jumps. _Focus, you cannot be getting so giddy over Gale of Salisbury, this is ridiculous._ The great gilded doors are thrown open and the Burgundian party sweeps into the hall, each one dressed in rich gems and silks. Madge stands a little straighter, ignores the ghost of Gale’s fingers on her cheek and carefully studies the boy at the head of the group, the one that must be Peeta of Burgundy. He is perhaps Katniss’s age with fine gold hair, sky blue eyes and a kind face. He is not particularly tall, but broad shouldered and sturdy. He is dressed in dark velvet with a bejeweled cap, silver clasps on his cape, shining boots and golden fleur-de-lis embroidered on his doublet. He doffs his cap and bows, his entire contingent following suit.

“Rise Lord Peeta and welcome to our kingdom,” Katniss says, voice stiffened with formality. Peeta stands, smiling easily, and holds his hat over his heart.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says and there’s in an infectious sort of charm to his words. “I am most honoured to be here in your glorious kingdom, Your Grace, and in the presence of Your most magnificent Highness.”

As florid and flowery as his words are, Madge finds herself believing each one; even though she knows they are naught but flattery. _I must keep my wits about me with him, I cannot fall prey to that silver tongue._

 _“_ My father sends his greetings and a gift of goodwill and friendship,” he finishes and gestures at one of his men to step forward. He bows before Katniss and opens the coffer in his hands, revealing a beautiful assortment of jewels. There is a turquoise bracelet, a necklace of gold and rubies, pearl earrings and a cat shaped brooch made of solid silver with tiny emerald eyes.

“Our deepest thanks to you and your Lord Father the Duke,” Katniss begins, the sharpness of her tone softened somewhat. _Perhaps Peeta’s golden tongue has already worked some magic_. “We hope you will enjoy your time here and that it will be the beginning of a great friendship between our two nations. We have rooms prepared for you and tonight there shall a grand feast to celebrate your arrival. Indeed, if it pleases you my Lord, we hope you will join us in a few days at the wedding of our most beloved sister as the guest of honour.”

Peeta bows again, his smile bright and charming.

“It would be my greatest pleasure and honour, Your Majesty. I thank you greatly.”

“Excellent,” Katniss says and again, Madge feels a seed of discomfort in her belly. _Why was Haymitch not informed of this?_

_What is Katniss up to?_

* * *

 

Things are so hectic leading up to the wedding that Madge never has a chance to see Gale alone, the words on the back of that brooch still burned into her eyelids. _I am yours wholly._ Even with everything going on and the surprise return of Duchess Elizabeth for the ceremony, Madge cannot get those words out of her head. For months now, she has been aiming to win Gale’s heart. Has she really done it?

_This is the victory I have been chasing._

_And yet…_

_And yet what?_

_I don’t know._

* * *

 

Madge and Annie help Prim dress the day of her wedding, lacing her into the most glorious golden kirtle. It shimmers every time she moves and Prim smoothes her hands over it in awe, her cheeks rosy with excitement. The kirtle is decorated with beautiful blue blossoms, each one linked together with fine silver vines. Over top goes her houppelande of deep blue silk, the front slashed to allow the kirtle to show. The burgundy velvet collar, cuffs and hem are patterned with golden fleur-de-lis and Madge ties on her girdle, gold and burgundy with sapphires and a great diamond in the center. Around her neck goes a three string pearl necklace, while dangling silver and sapphire earrings hang from her ears. Annie takes care of her hair, leaving it long except for a crown of braids at the back of her head, woven through with silver, blue and gold ribbons. The final touch is a two stringed pearl headband and Prim inhales deeply when they lead her in front of a seeing glass.

“Is that really me?” she whispers, leaning forward to touch her reflection and Madge smiles. She places her hands on Prim’s shoulders and squeezes.

“Darius won’t know what hit him,” she says as Annie dabs Prim with rosewater and adds just the right hint of make-up. Prim blushes and bites her lip around a smile.

“Primrose!” comes Duchess Elizabeth’s commanding voice from just outside the chamber and Madge stands back, giving Prim one last once over.

“Perfect,” she says with a nod and Prim blushes worse, ducking her head. They head out into the hall, Duchess Elizabeth tapping her foot impatiently. She scans her eyes over Prim critically, from hair to toes, before nodding stiffly. From behind her back Madge rolls her eyes at Annie who muffles her laughter with a cough.

“Come along,” Duchess Elizabeth orders and Prim hurries to follow her as she stalks off, Madge bringing up the rear. They make their way down to the Abbey and Gale is waiting just outside to escort Prim up the aisle. He catches Madge’s eye, a smile on his face that makes her heart race, and winks, her stomach doing somersaults. Duchess Elizabeth turns to Prim.

“Everything must go perfectly,” she says sternly and Prim nods. The Duchess leaves in a swish of maroon silk and Madge gives Prim an encouraging smile before following the Duchess into the chapel. The aisle is swathed in white rose petals and Madge is careful not to crush them as she makes her way to her seat beside her mother in the first row. Darius stands up at the front, cheery and handsome in cloth of gold, his vibrant hair ensuring all eyes are on him. The music starts to swell and Madge clasps her hands in her lap.

_Be happy Prim. You deserve every happiness._

(and strange as it is, she means it too)

* * *

 

The wedding goes ahead perfectly and Madge watches the newlyweds as they move through their very first dance.

Prim is pink cheeked and sparkly eyed, clearly besotted with her handsome young husband and Darius smiles widely as he spins her. They make a beautiful couple and unlike the previous weddings she’s attended, they are both old enough to live together as husband and wife. Madge is truly pleased they seem to be getting along, but there is still a kernel of discomfort in her stomach at the thought of Prim being a true wife in every way. She is only fourteen but she could conceive tonight, could be a mother before her fifteenth birthday. Madge knows plenty of women do it, but still, Prim is young and slender, birthing would be so very hard on her. _Bless them with children,_ Madge prays to God _, but please, keep Prim safe._

More couples begin to join Prim and Darius and Madge breathes in deeply, steeling herself for Marvel’s inevitable invitation. _Anyone else, I’d rather anyone else. Oh Katniss, why can you not just tell him that he shall never have me?_

A murmur of surprise ripples through the crowd and Madge’s eyes widen as she watches Peeta lead Katniss onto the dance floor. In all her months at court, Madge has never seen Katniss dance and there are nerves visible in her eyes and the stiffness of her limbs. _I wonder, does she even know what she’s doing?_ Peeta’s smile is friendly and _my goodness, Katniss must certainly be committed to making a treaty with the Burgundians._

Madge cannot help but smile a bit and then warm fingers close around hers. She turns quickly, expecting Marvel, and her breath hitches at the sight of Gale so very, very close.

“May I have a word?” he asks, voice quiet and Madge nods, her tongue not quite working. Gale smiles, the charming one that leaves her weak kneed, and leads her out into the hall. He turns to face her when they’re alone and takes both her hands in his.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, smile sweet and Madge wants to stay rooted to the spot at the same time she wants to flee.

“I’ve missed you too,” she manages, voice oddly breathless and he grins wider, moving in a little closer.

“You’re wearing my gift,” he says and she looks down at it, pinned to her kirtle.

“Yes, it’s…it’s wonderful really. Thank you.”

Gale lifts her chin with his hand and he is much closer now, her heart racing in her chest.

“It’s true you know, however ridiculous that may seem. _I am yours wholly_ ,” he says and she feels a little like swooning. His fingers are warm on her face, his breath sweet and he is so close she could count his eyelashes.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice soft as an angel’s wing and Madge does not even think before she answers.

“Yes.”

And so he does.


	6. white fading into red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is a storm coming, the greatest storm of all

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_part one_  
_now rises the sun of york_  
_chapter five_  
_white fading into red_

(Annie is waiting for Madge when she returns from the wedding festivities, her cheeks stained pink and a small, shy smile touching her mouth. Her eyes seem to shine and Annie knows better than to ask why.

 _Gale of Salisbury_ )

(how Annie hates him)

* * *

Madge can still feel Gale’s mouth on hers, warm and soft and her heart starts to race at the memory. _What’s wrong with me?_ She feels hot beneath her skin and there’s a thought beginning to form at the back of her mind, one she cannot go near. She lies in bed and tries to cheer her success, but still that almost-thought lingers, a thought too horrible, so horrible Madge forces it away until she forgets she ever had it.

She is sick, or just giddy over victory.

That’s it.

(is has to be)

* * *

Madge can still feel the ghost of Gale on her lips when she wakes the next morning and he haunts her every thought as Annie helps her dress, the heat of him burning in her bones. It had been a quick kiss, chaste and warm, but she had felt it straight down to her toes. They curl up in her shoes in remembrance while Annie winds her hair into intricate coils and Madge absently presses her fingers to her lips, the pressure of Gale’s mouth still lingering there.

Of course, it’s not surprising that he stays with her, after all, this is what she’s been working towards for months and months. This is her great triumph, but still, there is something… _no. No, all it is, is the thrill of victory_. Annie’s eyes stay on her as she leaves, but Madge does not feel her gaze, her mind too wrapped up in Gale.

She makes her way to Katniss’ chambers, brain buzzing and she is surprised to find Prim is not already there. One thing Prim always manages to beat her in is early rising, for Madge loves her bed far too much to part from it easily. She has never managed to arrive before Prim, but then _it was her wedding night last night,_ Madge remembers with a blush. She banishes the embarrassing thought and eases open the door to Katniss’ bedchamber, slipping quietly inside. She stops in the doorway, shocked to see Katniss already awake and gazing out the window at the gray April day.

“Your Majesty,” Madge greets and Katniss turns to her slowly, the skin around her eyes dark and heavy as if she hadn’t slept at all.

“Our sister won’t be joining us,” Katniss begins, voice thin and tired, “she has already left with the Duke of Buckingham for a month’s holiday.”

Madge nods and Katniss sighs.

“After we break our fast, we will be joining Lord Peeta for a walk in the gardens. He is most keen to see them. We will need a dress for that and one for the negotiations to follow,” she says and Madge actually frowns at how unhappy she sounds.

“Right away, your Majesty,” Madge assures her and carefully chooses her gowns. She selects a deep maroon velvet with gold embroidery for the negotiations and a pretty blue with silver birds for the garden walk. It looks slightly chilly outside, so Madge  adds a dove gray cloak to the ensemble. She holds the outfit out for Katniss to see.

“If you would permit me your Majesty, I think it would look lovely with the sapphire earrings you received from the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Peeta’s silver brooch.”

Katniss nods without even looking.

“We’re sure it will. The key for the jewel coffers is in our nightstand, you may use it.”

Madge blinks in surprise. Not once, in all her months of service, has Katniss allowed her access to her jewel coffers. _I am making progress indeed._

Madge fetches the jewels and helps Katniss into her dress. She begins to brush out her hair and wishes Prim were here, because hair styling is one talent Madge most certainly does not have. She’s just decided to leave it long with one lonely braid in the middle when Katniss speaks up.

“We would appreciate if you would join us on our walk, Lady Madge,” she says and Madge awkwardly affects a curtsy with her hands full of royal hair.

“I would be honoured your Majesty.”

_I suppose I am meant to act as a chaperone. Too bad Prim is away, for now I suppose I will have no one at all to talk to. Still, it might be worthwhile to listen in._

* * *

The grounds are still wet from last night’s rainfall when Madge follows Katniss outside, the plants glistening in the faint sun. Lord Peeta is waiting for them at the entrance to the gardens and Madge cannot help but think of Posy. _A pity she could not join us. Then again, she is rather busy with Booties’ great pack of kittens._

Madge shakes away the though as they draw nearer and Lord Peeta smiles brightly. He bows to Katniss, hat pressed to his heart while Madge curtsies to him, and she cannot help but notice how his eyes light up when he notices the pin fastening Katniss’ cloak.

“Good morning, your Majesty,” he greets, sounding somewhat breathless. “May I say again that I am most honoured and humbled that you would choose to give this tour yourself? I know you must be incredibly busy and I appreciate it most sincerely.”

Again Madge thinks that anyone else saying such a thing would sound ridiculous, but there is something in the warmth of his voice or the cheer in his tone that makes her want to believe it. _What is your secret Lord Peeta? For I think it would come very much in handy._

“It is our pleasure Lord Peeta. We have a great many duties it is true, but our wish is for our two realms to be great friends and allies,” Katniss says and Madge is impressed with how regal she sounds.

“That is my hope as well,” Peeta agrees, his smile eager and friendly. Katniss manages a nod.

“Forgive my late arrival Majesty.”

Madge hears his voice from somewhere behind her and feels her blood instantly heat. She turns with Katniss and Peeta and there is Gale, looking stupidly dashing in dark velvet.

“We thought you might have forgotten us,” Katniss says wryly, the strain in her voice fading slightly and in the back of her mind Madge thinks, _I suppose Katniss is relieved to have an ally in this meeting with Lord Peeta._ In the forefront of her mind all she can think of is Gale and his mouth and _stop stop stop!_

She comes back to the world to dying laughter and clearly, she has missed something.

“Your Majesty?” Peeta asks and offers Katniss his arm. She hesitates for a moment and then takes it, never once looking at Peeta’s genial expression. _She must be so nervous, this is her very first negotiation._

“My lady?” Gale asks and Madge feels fire bloom in her cheeks. She peeks at him and he is holding out his arm, a grin teasing his mouth and her stupid stupid heart starts pounding up inside her ears. _What is wrong with you? You’re acting positively ridiculous._ She takes his arm, fingers trembling slightly and she wants to curse herself. _I’ve won! So why does he have every confidence and I feel as if my knees might give out?_

Peeta and Katniss lead the way through the garden, the soft murmurings of their voices fluttering back to Madge. She keeps her eyes fixed on them and makes no attempt to engage Gale in conversation, though she knows she should. She is so close, has come so far, so why does she feel the sudden urge to retreat? _I cannot give up now. Guilt or illness or whatever this is be damned. Remember Father and Mother and Annie. You have him, you must finish it. That kiss and the pin, “I am yours wholly”. That is proof, you’ve won, do not back down now!_

_But what if all this is only words?_

_(faster Gale faster)_

_(God yes)_

_Plenty of men lavish pretty words and lovely sentiments on silly girls to get them undressed, a lie to make her believe in love. What if he merely wants me up against a wall or in his bed, what if I have won only his lust?_

“Forgive me Lady Madge, if I have done anything to offend you. Perhaps I should not have been so forward yesterday.”

Madge is so startled she actually stops walking and stares up at him. He has obviously taken note of her silence, of her strange reluctance to look at him and she is surprised to see she has even put some distance between them as they walk. _He must think me distraught over that kiss._ He looks thoughtful, pretty eyes downcast and she has the strong urge to reach up and touch his cheek, to trail her fingers over the curve of his jaw and feel the heat of his skin.

“Though I see you are still wearing my pin, so perhaps you are not so upset with me after all,” he comments and her hand leaps to the pin fastening her cloak. Her fingers tighten over the cool metal and her tongue feels oddly thick in her mouth. She knows what she should say of course, that she is not upset in the slightest, that she is merely afraid he might think her too forward. She says neither of those things.

(faster Gale faster)

(God yes)

“I find myself merely wondering about your intentions, Lord Gale. I would not be the first girl led astray by pretty words.”

_Are you trying to offend him? What is wrong with you?_

She cannot look at him for fear of his reaction and her emotions feel chaotic and out of sorts. He does not answer right away and she feels oddly cold, as if she has swallowed a lump of ice.

“Lady Madge,” he begins, her name in his voice making her spine tingle. “I admit I find myself a little hurt you would accuse me of such things, but then, there are many men out there you would do just that.”

She does look up at him now, surprise tickling her heart and _those eyes_ , she thinks deep down where secret thoughts linger, _those eyes will be the death of me_. He takes her hands and smiles, the ground beneath her feet feeling not quite steady.

“Let me assure you, Lady Madge, that my intentions towards you are entirely honourable.”

He comes a little closer and she nods, her heart thudding loudly.

“I know, I did not really doubt it. I am sorry for asking, I hope you do not think less of me.”

He grins.

“I could never,” he assures her and she finds her fingers squeezing his. “Though perhaps I should hold off on the kisses.”

Madge steps a little closer and shakes her head.

“I never said I wanted that,” she murmurs, surprised by her own boldness, and Gale laughs, his grin widening.

“Oh, and what do you want Lady Madge?”

They are very close now, too close for propriety and they stare into each other’s eyes, a steady heat growing in Madge’s stomach. _I want-_

“Are you two lost back there?” Katniss’ voice interrupts and Madge feels her face flame with embarrassment. Katniss’s tone is teasing but there’s a barely buried edge of panic to her words, as if she is afraid to be left alone with Peeta. Madge steps away from Gale and stares at her feet, but he merely laughs.

“So sorry, your Majesty. We shall try our best to keep up.”

“See that you do.”

Gale offers her his arm again and Madge takes it, the two of them drawing closer to Peeta and Katniss. Peeta has a great many stories to tell and by Gale’s reaction, Madge would say they are downright hilarious, but she hears nary a word. All she can hear is the pounding of her own heart, the roaring of her blood and _what in the name of God is wrong with me?_

_I can’t possibly be-of course not. Gale, he’s…he’s nothing. Nothing. This is nothing._

_Nothing at all._

(in fact, Madge is so distracted she even misses the remarkable feat of  Peeta managing to win a tiny smile from Katniss)

* * *

_my intentions towards you are entirely honourable_

Those words must mean marriage, mustn’t they? He means to marry her, he must. Katniss will give her blessing and Haymitch would not refuse, certainly not if Katniss wanted it, right? This must mean victory and yet, and yet…

_I hope you do not think less of me_

_I could never_

_(if you knew, if you really knew, I think you could)_

* * *

Madge walks back to her rooms alone, Katniss, Peeta and Gale headed off to begin their negotiations.

She cannot help but wonder as she walks, why they would not want Haymitch here to help them. Katniss and Gale have never conducted any sort of treaty negotiation before, would it not be more prudent to have someone as experienced as Haymitch by their side? Could they not have delayed his trip to France or delayed Peeta’s visit here?

And why did they not want him to know?

Madge stops and stares out the nearest window at the storm clouds starting to gather.

_There is something going on here. But what?_

* * *

(Haymitch knows a great deal is riding on these negotiations, knows he cannot afford to put one foot out of step.

Katniss has finally trusted in him to carry out this most important of tasks and he will not let her down.

He will not let England down)

* * *

For over a month, Madge sees almost nothing of Gale and Katniss.

In the morning she helps Katniss dress, at night she helps her ready for bed and in between she sits in her chambers and pretends to embroider. The both of them and Peeta spend nearly every hour sequestered away in their negotiations and Madge wishes she could think of anything else, but she can’t.

_What are they saying?_

_How is it going?_

_And why do they not want Haymitch there?_

Madge wishes she could ask Katniss, but she knows she hasn’t earned that much of her trust. She doesn’t see enough of Gale to ask him, but then, she’s not even sure if he would tell her. He may have honourable intentions towards her, but she’s not yet sure if he’d be willing to spill state secrets. And she knows she can’t risk asking him, for if he did refuse her, who knows what sort of damage that might do to their relationship.

So for just over a month, she waits and worries and wishes she knew what was going on.

* * *

At the end of May, the court moves to Eltham Palace in the south east of London and it is beautiful, it truly is.

Madge is kept busy supervising Katniss’ things while the Queen and Gale give Lord Peeta the grand tour, taking him all around the palace, the gardens and the tiltyard. Madge wishes she could go with them, wishes she knew how things stood between them and how their negotiations were faring, but instead she stays locked up in Katniss’ rooms commanding an army of maids.

She is so very, very far out of the loop it is almost painful.

 _If only I could ask Gale_ , she sighs internally as she organizes Katniss’ abnormally large collection of gloves. _Why does she have so many of these? What could she possibly need them for?_ The door opens behind her and she turns, wondering if it is a maid from the outer chamber with a question.

“I hope you do not mind the intrusion, Lady Madge,” Gale says as he shuts the door behind him and Madge feels her heart beat a little quicker, her face already embarrassingly warm. It is entirely inappropriate for him to be here, alone with her behind closed doors and the correct thing to do would be to say as much and ask him to leave.

“Not at all, Sir Gale,” she says and he smiles, her stomach bubbling at the sight. He leans back against the door with folded arms, his eyes moving over her slowly in a way that makes her shiver.

“I fell as if I haven’t seen you in ages,” he says and Madge nods, setting down a pair of fine white gloves.

“Indeed,” she agrees, “I was beginning to think you might have forgotten me.” She softens the words with a smile and Gale grins, pushing off the door behind him.

“Of all the people in all the world, you are the one I am least likely to forget,” he assures her and she beams, her insides feeling like warm butter.

(because she is winning, of course)

“Do you recall,” he asks, “our walk in the garden with Katniss and Peeta?”

Madge nods and steps around the large chest she’d been unpacking, inching just a bit closer to him.

“I do, in fact.”

“And do you recall our conversation?”

Gale walks towards her as he talks and she continues closer as well, sparks sizzling beneath her skin.

“I recall you mentioning honourable intentions,” she says and they reach each other, Gale taking her hands in his.

“I did,” he agrees, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin tingles beneath his fingers.

“And I also recall telling you that I most certainly did not mind your kisses,” she whispers, almost breathless and he is very close now, their noses brushing.

“I was hoping you’d remember that,” he breathes and then he is kissing her, mouth firm and hot against hers. He releases her hands and moves his to her waist and she finds hers moving to his shoulders, that dreaded illness she seems to have been fighting for ages writhing again inside of her.  They spend a moment or a hundred like that, lips pressed to lips and then he pulls back, their foreheads and noses still touching.

“I should go,” he murmurs and her eyes flutter open.

“Why? You’ve only just got here.”

He smiles, his fingers tightening pleasantly on her waist.

“I hadn’t realized how very tempting you’d be. I do have honourable intentions remember, I don’t want you to start thinking I’m trying to lure you into sin.”

“How very gallant,” she whispers and then reaches up to kiss him again, slow and soft. A frission shoots through her when she feels his tongue slide lightly over her lips, but before she can think much of it he pulls back again.

“I really do have honourable intentions,” he assures her and she nods, “I mean to do something about them very soon.”

“I’m glad,” she says and he presses his forehead to hers.

“I really should go though, if anyone knew I was here it would be your reputation that would suffer. God, you are tempting though…”

He leans in and she thinks for a moment that he will kiss her again, but he stops himself and lets go of her. He bows and kisses her fingertips, heat surging up her arm.

“Good day, Lady Madge,” he says and she nods.

“And to you, Sir Gale,” she replies, hand pressed against her thumping heart. She watches him leave and fans herself.

_I feel as if I have a fever, perhaps I should see the physician._

* * *

(Gale makes his way back out to the tiltyard where he’d slipped away from Peeta and Katniss, his entire body hot in a not-exactly-appropriate way. He’s sorely, sorely tempted to head straight back to Madge and kiss her breathless, his blood humming with desire. He can still feel her beneath his hands, against his mouth and he’d never known any girl could  drive him so crazy, but she does, God, she does.

 _Honourable intentions_ , he reminds himself sternly and yes he wants her, wants her to a ludicrous degree, but he remembers those words of hers _I would not be the first girl led astray by pretty words_. He needs her to be sure he loves her, needs her to know that while he needs her in a very, very physical way, he wants her in every other way too. He loves her (as much as Thom disapproves, and oh does he) and he wants to spends everyday talking with her, walking with her, laughing with her.

He’s been lustful before, but those girls always knew it and never wanted anything more. He would never seduce anyone merely to satisfy his own passions, but he cannot be angry at Madge for being concerned. She is right after all, there are plenty of men who say nay manner of things just to get under a lady’s skirt. He doesn’t want her to worry about any of that, does not want to give her any reason to doubt him, so he’ll have to do his best ot keep a lid on his passions. And really, what’s a few more months of waiting? Soon, they’ll have forever)

(and really, it’s no great sacrifice. After all, (and he’ll never say this aloud, because how embarrassing) he’s pretty sure he could spend a lifetime just listening to her talk)

* * *

Spring flowers bloom as Madge stands out in the courtyard waiting for Darius and Prim’s arrival.

The sun is pleasantly warm on her head, a wonderful change from all the rain they’d had and that’s when she hears the great clattering of hooves. She looks over at the gates and there are baggage carts, servants and then finally Prim and Darius, their horses trotting in side by side. Madge smiles and as traitorous a thought as it is, she knows she’s pleased to see Prim again. Darius dismounts first and his expression is as smiley and handsome as always. He helps Prim down and Madge drops into a curtsy.

 “Welcome back my lord Duke, my lady Duchess,” she greets and Prim immediately pulls her up into a hug.  

“Oh it’s so good to see you again!” she says and Madge squeezes her back. Over Prim’s shoulder, she can see Darius offer her a short bow.

“Lady Madge. I’ll see that all our things are properly settled, you two catch up,” he says, leaning in to kiss Prim’s cheek. She smiles and they both watch him as he heads inside.

“How was the holiday?” Madge asks and Prim’s face turns crimson. She drags Madge over to a bench by a hedge and they sit, Prim’s skin still dark and burning.

“It was…the wedding night was just awful,” she admits and Madge’s eyes go wide. “It hurt, quite a bit actually, but that’s supposed to happen I think. Still, I’m so embarrassed, I actually cried! Can you believe it?”

Madge winces in sympathy and squeezes her hand.

“It was not in the least romantic. Just bloody and tearful and mortifying. We didn’t speak again for two days.”

Madge gapes.

“Really?”

Prim nods mournfully.

“It was wretched.”

“But you did…work things out, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” she says, voice high as her skin starts to turn pink. She clears her throat. “I am glad to be back though.”

Madge frowns.

“Did you not enjoy any of your time away?”

“Of course I did, of course I did!” Prim hurriedly assures her. “Darius was lovely, really and so was Penshurst. I just missed everyone is all.” She smiles. “Now tell me, what’s been going while I’ve been gone?”

“Nothing much really. Katniss, Gale and Lord Peeta spend most of the day shut up negotiating, I rarely see any of them. That’s why I’m here without Katniss, she’s locked up with the both of them.”

“Any clue how it’s going?”

Madge shakes her head.

“No, they’ve remained quite tight lipped.”

Prim nods thoughtfully and Madge gets the impression she knows more of Katniss’ plan than she’s let on. Madge thinks of asking her, but just like with Gale and Katniss, she cannot be entirely sure of her reaction. Unfortunately, this is one risk she cannot afford to take _. If only I could be sure._

The sound of boots on gravel makes them both turn their heads and there is Marvel striding purposefully down the path, his body rigid and tense. His eyes find them only briefly, but his look turns positively poisonous, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. Madge blinks in surprise and he jerks his head around, marching off. _What on Earth could have him in so foul a mood?_

“Oh dear,” Prim says and Madge nods. “I suspect Katniss has finally told him no.”

Madge turns to her in confusion.

“No about what?” she asks and Prim bites her lip.

“I’m not supposed to…oh alright, I’ll tell you, but don’t let anyone know! It’s supposed to be a secret.”

Madge nods quickly and squeezes Prim’s hands.

“Well, it’s just that he very much wanted to marry y-,” she swallows, “… _someone_ but Katniss favoured another suitor for…that lady. She’s been waiting for confirmation from that other man that he was interested before she refused Marvel. She must have got it. I hope he isn’t too upset.”

Madge nods reflexively, her mind whirring. _Katniss has finally put an end to Marvel’s hopes. I won’t have to marry him and Gale…he’s said something to Katniss, he must have._

_This is really happening, he really meant it._

_I’ve done it._

* * *

That bright flame of victory stays with her all night, drowning out her worries and fears.

_I’ve done it, I’ve really won. Finally._

(and a little deeper, in a place she will never admit exists, there is something else, something soft and warm and fragile)

* * *

 

Madge laces Katniss into her brown houppelande while Prim picks through her jewel coffers, another long day of negotiations ahead for the Queen. Prim fills their silence and it feels safer like this, Madge with so many thoughts crowding up her mind she cannot imagine what she would say if expected to speak.

“I don’t know what it is about Philippa and Rory, but they really do seem to bring out the worst in each other. Separate they are both absolutely lovely people, but together, well they’re positively obnoxious. It’s tragic really.”

Madge nods and smooths down Katniss’ skirts. Prim comes around to do her hair and _hmmm_ s thoughtfully.

“I really wish we had some turquoise for your hair,” she says, “it would look so lovely with the bracelet from the Burgundians. Speaking of, how are things going in that department?”

Madge stiffens, afraid to move, even to breathe, as if any sudden movements will remind Katniss she is here and stop her from telling Prim anything. Katniss inhales and exhales loudly and picks at the embroidery in her skirt.

“It should be settled soon,” she murmurs and Prim’s eyes light up.

“Lord Peeta is truly willing?”

Katniss nods.

“Yes, he is…most enthusiastic,” she says and there’s something in her voice, not pleasure or displeasure, but more like surprise, complete and true surprise, like she cannot possible conceive of anyone being enthusiastic about whatever it is she’s suggested. Prim beams and Madge feels curiosity burn painfully in her gut. _What has she offered? What is it?_

_And what does it mean for me if Lord Peeta agrees to it?_

* * *

She does not, as it turns out, have to wait long for an answer.

A handful of days later, Katniss summons all the kingdom’s lords and they arrive in droves, each one of them eager to hear what she has to say. It is obvious the treaty negotiations have concluded, the question of course, is their result.

Madge and Prim dress Katniss in her very best, lacing her into a midnight houppelande trimmed in gold and smothered in diamond dust like stars in the sky. It is slashed up the front to show her kirtle, an amethyst one decorated with silver roses outlined in pearls. Prim weaves her hair into a great mound of braids studded with diamonds and they place a crown on top, hanging great dangling silver framed amethysts on her ears. She wears rings on every finger, gem encrusted bracelets on both wrists and the Burgundian cat brooch on her kirtle. They pin a long ermine lined train to her shoulders and Madge cannot help being awe struck at the sight of her. Katniss rarely gives off the impression of enjoying her role as queen, but today at least, the part seems to fit her like a glove.

Madge and Prim carry that train as she walks down to her audience chamber, everyone they pass dropping into deep obeisance. Katniss’ expression is both somber and resolute, her shoulders squared and her chin raised. There is no hint of her usual weariness, of her reluctance and Madge knows how much this treaty must mean to her. The lords waiting for her will be eager and willing to tear her down, this woman who presumes to lead them, and today at least, Katniss looks ready to take them all on.

(not that Madge cares, of course)

Katniss dismisses the both of them when they reach their destination and Madge has to bite her lip around a protest. _Tell me what’s happened! Tell me!_ she wants to shout, her curiosity boiling up inside of her. She curtsies and forces herself to keep quiet, even as those words beat against her skull. Katniss enters the hall and Madge watches her go with disappointment thick in her stomach.

“Curious?” Prim asks, a knowing smile on her face and Madge flushes. She thinks of denying it but then shrugs.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she admits and Prim laughs. She looks around and then grabs Madge’s hand, tugging her into a secluded corner.

“Alright, but this is our secret, understand?”

Madge nods.

“Well, there’s some boring trade agreement we’ve made, apparently we do a lot with Burgundian wool, who knew? There’s also some bits about being allies in wartime, but that’s not the exciting part,” she says and Madge feels her stomach clench. Prim leans in closer, her eyes bright.

“To seal this alliance, Katniss is going to marry Lord Peeta! Can you believe it?” she enthuses and _no, I can’t believe it_.

Madge knows Duchess Elizabeth has been pushing for this, but it seems unreal that it’s actually happening. Lord Peeta seems nice but Katniss had seemed so opposed to marriage and children, at least, that’s the impression Madge had gotten from their argument. Not that it really matters what she wants, she is a queen, she doesn’t have much choice.

And now Peeta of Burgundy will be her consort.

_This changes everything._

* * *

 

Madge goes walking with Gale in the gardens soon afterwards, her mind still whirling with Katniss’ betrothal. Gale looks over at her and grins.

“I see Prim has spilled the beans then,” he says and Madge looks at him in surprise.

“Of course not,” she says and he laughs.

“You’re not a very good liar, but it’s alright, the whole country’s got to learn eventually.”

Madge nods and he squeezes her hand on his arm, her fingers warm at his touch.

“So what do you think of Lord Peeta and the Queen, will they make a good match?” she asks and Gale thinks, eyes sliding up to the sky.

“Hmm, I suppose so. Peeta seems nice enough and he doesn’t seem to mind Katniss having all the power, which is a definite plus. We were both worried any husband she’d get would try to be in charge of everything.”

Madge nods slowly, trying to fit this new information into her hazy plans when Gale stops walking. She furrows her brow in question and he smiles.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the bench before them. She does but he doesn’t join her, instead he stands facing her and takes her hands in his.

“You remember last time we were here I mentioned having honourable intentions?”

“Yes,” she says and there is something fluttering furiously in her chest. His smile widens.

“Well, I intend to make something of them now. I thought I’d get your opinion first, after all, yours is the opinion that matters most.”

Madge doesn’t answer, isn’t sure she could and he laughs fondly, shaking his head.

“It may seem ridiculous, given our past, but I can’t imagine my life without you,” he says and Madge gasps a little, her eyes wide. Gale gives her that grin, the adorably endearing one she is certain could melt a solid block of ice and her heart starts to pound somewhere in her throat.

“I love you, Madge,” he says sweetly, sincerely and she feels strangely as if she wants to cry, “I don’t ever want to be without you. I can think of nothing that would make me happier than if you would agree to spend the rest of our lives together. I’d like to marry you, Madge of Bedford, if you’ll have me,” he finishes, crooked grin in place and she’s certain she’s stopped breathing. They stay like for a second or a thousand, silent, unmoving.

And then she starts to cry.

Gale drops down to his knees before her and cups her wet cheeks in his hands.

“I hope those are happy tears,” he murmurs and she nods, placing her hands over his.

“Yes,” she blubbers, “yes they are and yes I’ll have you Gale of Salisbury, forever. I love you too.”

He beams, fresh and bright like sunshine, and then he leans up to kiss her. She kisses him back and she is warm and golden and bubbly inside, a spurt of pure joy filling her up.

(but there is another part of her, almost hollow and coated in ashes, that hisses into her bliss,

_you are a liar Madge of Bedford, a filthy filthy liar)_

* * *

(Annie is darning a torn hem when Madge comes into the room, starry eyed and rosy cheeked. She leans back against the door after she’s closed it and rests her hands over her heart, a nervous sort of smile on her lips. She sighs, both flustered and dreamy and there is something ice cold in Annie’s stomach, its chill sinking into her blood.

“How was your walk?” she asks and Madge straightens with a jump, eyes wide and surprised.

“Oh, Annie, I didn’t you see you there. It was…it was…” she bites her lip but there’s a smile there, bright and blooming, and Annie feels like puking, “ _wonderful_.”)

( _curse you Gale of Salisbury_ )

( _curse you to Hell_ )

* * *

Madge doesn’t even try to sleep, her heart hammering and her blood singing in her veins.

_He asked me to marry him._

_He loves me._

_I’ve really, really done it._

_All he needs is Haymitch’s permission, and then we’ll be married._

Something hot starts to bubble inside of her as she imagines it, the wedding, the grand celebration afterwards, the wedding night. She feels herself blush and she hears him _god yes_ in her mind, but for the first time she does not think of the girl he must have been saying it to. She imagines him saying it to her, imagines calloused fingers touching more than just her hands, imagines kisses that are more than chaste and _what is wrong with me?_ She stands from bed and fans herself with her hand, a fever seemingly overtaking her.

_What is going on? This is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous…_

_“It may seem ridiculous, given our past, but I can’t imagine my life without you.”_

Madge hears those words in her head and feels hot all over again, her heart skipping beats in her chest. She cannot help but imagine a lifetime of lovely words, of him wearing her favor in tournaments, of love letters and lingering glances and pretty children, all those stupid, silly things she fantasized of as a child and _stop! Stop, this isn’t like that, it isn’t it isn’t!_

She moves to the window in hopes of catching a draft to cool her heated skin and why oh why does she feel like this? It isn’t guilt, though she can feel that too, cutting at the edges of her happiness and that happiness must be only triumph, because she’s won, hasn’t she?

_He’s nothing, nothing nothing nothing!_

Madge squeezes the window ledge and repeats it to herself, tries to brand the words into her skull.

“He’s nothing, I don’t care, he’s the enemy. I don’t care, he’s nothing to me, nothing at all. He’s a Yorkist, the Yorkists are the enemy. He’s nothing.”

The words sound wrong on her tongue but they have to be true, they have to be. She is a Lancastrian, she will avenge her parents and Annie, Gale of Salisbury means nothing to her at all.

_“I love you, Madge, I don’t ever want to be without you.”_

_I hate you,_ she thinks even as hot tears start to burn in her eyes _, I hate you. I don’t love you, I never will._

_I can’t._

* * *

Haymitch returns from France in June, a storm in his wake.

Madge is breaking her fast with her mother when he barges into his wife’s chambers, the both of them jumping as the door crashes back against the wall. Madge’s plate of strawberries tumbles down to the floor with a clatter and Haymitch slams the door behind him, the whole chamber shuddering with it.

“My lord, I didn’t know you were back,” Margaret says, her voice a little uneven and Haymitch’s eyes are livid as he tears off his hat and whips it across the room. It hits the wall and slides limply to the ground, Madge’s heart thudding painfully in her chest.

“I can’t believe this, I cannot believe this!” he thunders, kicking a chest of drawers and sending the vase on top crashing to the floor. Madge flinches and Haymitch begins to pace, his boots stomping down on her rolling strawberries, their red juices spewing out in every direction.

“What is it?” her mother asks and Madge cannot lie, she is terrified.

“Katniss and Gale, the utter fools!” he roars in answer and Madge’s eyes go wide.

“What have they done?” her mother asks and he rounds on them, face blotchy with rage.

“They’ve doomed us all, ruined everything we’ve worked for, condemned us!”

“Doomed?” Madge whispers quietly and Haymitch tugs furiously at the clasps of his cloak.

“Yes, _doomed_. This little game they’ve played with Burgundy will be the end of us. How could they be so stupid?” he demands and then returns to his pacing, Madge feeling sick and nauseous. She looks over at her mother and her expression is grim, Madge’s blood running suddenly cold. Haymitch stops again and stares out the window, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Everything we’ve done, all our hard work, thrown aside because of the stupidity of youth. I cannot fix this,” he says, sounding so tired, so sad and Madge wonders if she should be celebrating.

_Does this mean I’m winning?_

(it certainly doesn’t feel like it)

* * *

 

The next day Haymitch decides to take his grievances straight to Katniss and Gale.

Madge knows it is wrong, but she follows behind him, desperate to know what exactly it is they’ve done, just why Haymitch believes them utterly ruined. She waits just beyond the door when he enters Katniss’ chambers, discreetly leaning in to hear their words.

Not, as it turns out, that she needs to.

“Haymitch, welcome ba-”

“What in the name of God were you two thinking?” Haymitch nearly bellows and Madge takes a step back in surprise.

“Excuse me?” Gale demands, a hint of temper shining through. Katniss sighs.

“So you’ve heard,” she says and Haymitch laughs loudly.

“Heard? Oh yes, I’ve heard. Everyone’s heard, _France_ has heard!”

“I knew you’d be upset we didn’t tell you, but-”

“You think that’s why I’m upset?” Haymitch shouts. “You lied to me, both of you. You did not trust me, nor did you see fit to consult me on this matter-”

“Katniss is queen here,” Gale interrupts, “she can make her own decisions.”

“Only an idiot believes a monarch needs no advice but their own,” Haymitch snaps and Madge can imagine the look of fury on Gale’s face.

“Look here-”

“Enough,” Katniss says firmly, cutting off Gale’s angry retort.

“No, it’s not enough,” Haymitch spits, “you humiliated me Katniss, you made a laughing stock of me here and in France. Worse, you have shown that the House of York is not united, that we are not strong but divided. You sent me on a fool’s errand to France and everyone knows it! Our position is too precarious for stunts like this!”

“You have no right,” Gale begins but Haymitch does not allow him to finish.

“I have every right! The Lancastrians are still out there and because of your actions they are now stronger than ever! King Louis is enraged, as he should be. My visit, our negotiations, it was all a farce and he knows it. He does not think you take him seriously and he is insulted. You used him to get me out of the way and he will not forget it. The Lancastrians are hiding in his court, he’d have handed them over to us and we’d have been free of their threat forever. Instead, he is now likely to fund them, to give them ships, troops and legitimacy! Not to mention France has long been the enemy of Burgundy, by siding with them you have all but guaranteed a war! What were you thinking?”

There is no answer for a long moment and Madge presses her hands to her mouth. _What are they thinking? Why would they have done all this?_

“You are not my master Haymitch, I owe you no explanations,” Katniss finally says, her voice hard.

“Indeed,” Gale agrees, “we are not children any longer, we can make our own decisions.”

“Clearly you can’t,” Haymitch bites back and Madge inhales sharply. The very air seems to shimmer with anger and then,

“I think it would be best, Lord Haymitch, if you were to see to your properties.”

The command in Katniss’s voice is clear and Madge hurriedly backs away from the door.

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Haymitch says stiffly, “but this is not over. I fear it’s only just begun.”

“Get out, we have no more need of you here.”

Katniss’s voice is sharp and Haymitch comes barging out of her chambers, the door nearly catching Madge in the face. She watches him stomp off and _I don’t understand. What reasons could Gale and Katniss possibly have for what they’ve done?_

_And is this really the end as Haymitch thinks? Is York truly about to fall?_

_Is this nightmare almost over?_

* * *

Haymitch leaves that very day, whisking her mother off to Baynard’s Castle.

Madge is left behind because of her position in Katniss’ household and she watches them ride away in quite the fury, clouds of dust kicked up behind them. They’d cleaned out their rooms, made it very clear they were going and not coming back and Madge bites her lip, a yawning sort of chasm opening inside of her.

It is terrible to be on opposite sides with her mother and she hates this, even though deep down she knows she should rejoice as the Yorkists tear themselves apart.

Everything’s going just as she wanted and yet not, not at all.

* * *

(Marvel knows that he has to leave too, after all, an insult to his father is an insult to him.

He’ll go to his manor house of Cold Harbour, still within the city, as a show of solidarity but he’ll visit court too, unlike Haymitch who’ll probably stay holed up in Baynard’s.

He can’t be sure which of them will prevail in this battle of wills, but Marvel won’t be on the losing side. He’ll keep a foot in both camps until a winner is clear.

Queen or father, it doesn’t matter who wins, as long as he’s standing beside them when they do)

* * *

Madge seeks Gale out as soon as she can and he is clearly still agitated, an angry flush creeping up his neck. He wilts when he sees her and sighs.

“I suppose you’ve seen Haymitch?” he asks and she nods. He sighs again and takes her hand.

“Come on,” he says and pulls her into a deserted hallway. She bites her lip.

“What’s going on?” she asks and Gale leans back against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

“Haymitch thinks he knows best, that’s what going on,” he mumbles and Madge frowns.

“Does he?”

Gale looks at her sharply for a moment before the anger fades. He sighs and runs another hand through his hair.

“Contrary to his beliefs, Katniss and I are not complete fools. We knew there would be consequences to our actions, we simply believe the pros outweigh the cons.”

“And what are those pros?”

“Look, Haymitch has been pushing for an alliance with France from the beginning, but there’s no point in that. How many alliances have me made with France? How often have they lasted? Katniss and I, we thought it’d be more prudent to ally with Burgundy as they don’t have a history of stabbing us in the back. Furthermore, when we inevitably find ourselves at war with France again, we now have an ally in magnificent strategic position. This alliance might well deter France from even beginning hostilities, knowing we are allied with their neighbour.”

“And the Lancastrians?” she asks and Gale frowns.

“That’s unfortunate, but we’ve beat them before. If they come back, even supported by the French, Katniss will defeat them again.”

Madge sucks in her bottom lip and he makes good points, but then, so did Haymitch. And yes, they’ve beaten the Lancastrians before, but it does seem somewhat arrogant not to be concerned about another invasion.

“And what of you and Haymitch?” she asks and Gale places his hands on her shoulders.

“Fear not Madge, Haymitch is like a second father to Katniss and me, he’ll come around. He’s upset we did this without him, but Katniss is queen, he will have to accept that he cannot control her every decision. You needn’t worry,” he assures her, “the House of York will not fall, this will soon be resolved.”

Madge nods even though she is not sure she is convinced and allows him to pull her against his chest.

“It’s going to be alright,” he murmurs and Madge nods, her hands fisted in the back of his doublet.

_Why do I not believe that?_

* * *

 

Haymitch’s fight with Katniss and Gale is on every pair of lips by the next day, whispers and rumors ripe in every hallway.

Madge knows she should be rejoicing in this, but for some reason she cannot. She goes about her duties with a lump in her chest, a heavy weight she can’t seem to dislodge. She thinks over Gale’s words, Haymitch’s and she cannot decide who to believe.

Is Haymitch merely afraid of losing control? Or are Gale and Katniss allowing their youthful folly to cloud their judgement? Are they so determined to control their own lives they are refusing to listen to reason? Or is Haymitch underestimating them?

_I don’t know._

_And I think I’m afraid to find out._

* * *

(Margaret tries to talk to him, tries to calm him but he can’t be calmed, the maelstrom in his chest far too great for anyone to tame.

Haymitch can’t understand it, cannot even begin to grasp what’s gone on. All he has done, everything, has been to help them and they have rejected him, humiliated him, cast him aside.

That is bad enough, but this situation with the French is a complete disaster. No, he never would have agreed to an alliance with Burgundy, but to send him to France, to authorize him to negotiate a marriage for her all while having no intention of going through with it, planning instead to ally with some of King Louis’ greatest enemies, it is inconceivable. To infuriate the French king so, to humiliate him like that, it is undeniable provocation.

Are she and Gale insane? Do they want a war with France and Lancaster?

How could they do this?)

_(how could they do this to me?)_

* * *

 

“What do you think of Glimmer Mowbray?” Prim asks as she and Madge sit embroidering in the Queen’s chambers. Katniss is away with Gale and Peeta, leaving the two of them alone and Madge frowns.

“I don’t know her very well,” she says, not wanting to mention that she isn’t very fond of what she does know, “why?”

“I was just wondering. If she’s going to marry Marvel, we’re probably going to have to spend quite a bit of time with her. I’m just hoping she’s nice.”

Madge blinks in shock.

“She’s marrying Marvel?”

Prim’s mouth opens in surprise.

“You didn’t know?” she asks, looking embarrassed when Madge shakes her head.

“I’m sure he meant to tell you, he’s probably just so excited he forgot,” Prim tries and Madge smiles.

“I’m sure.”

Of course, she knows that isn’t true at all. Marvel has not spoken to her, not even looked at her, since Katniss rejected his proposal. She can’t be sure if he’s angry with her for Katniss’ ruling, or just sees no purpose in speaking with her now that he can’t marry her, but either way, he has ignored her entirely since Katniss’ decision.

It is not exactly unwelcome.

But Glimmer Mowbray…It is a good match, she is the daughter of the Duke of Norfolk and set to inherit from him, Marvel will make out quite well. Most would consider it a wonderful marriage and Madge is sure Duchess Elizabeth will be pleased.

Marvel on the other hand, well after shooting so high, he might see even this as a disappointment.

* * *

(She doesn’t know it, but Marvel is still aiming high)

(so very, very high)

* * *

 

Madge sorts through Katniss’ gowns, examining any for defects, when there comes a knock at the door. She smiles and wonders if it is Gale for another moment of stolen kisses.

“Come in,” she calls and her smile drops when Peeta steps inside.

“Lord Peeta,” she says in surprise, scrambling into a curtsy.

“Oh, hello, Lady…um…”

“Lady Madge,” she supplies.

“Yes, of course. Forgive me Lady Madge and please, stand up.”

She does and then watches him as he fidgets nervously. He notices her gaze and smiles a bit in embarrassment.

“Excuse me, I was hoping to come across the Duchess of Buckingham. But then…perhaps you could help me?”

“I would be delighted to be of service, my lord,” she tells him, inclining her head. He smiles, fully this time, and it is a very nice smile, like warm honey.

“You are part of Katn-the Queen’s household, would you by chance know her taste in jewellery?” he asks, fidgeting again and she feels her eyebrows go up.

“Have you a gift in mind?” she asks and he nods, opening his hand to show her a ring. It is a great big emerald set in a golden band and Madge cannot help but exhale in appreciation.

“It is beautiful, my lord.”

“It’s a betrothal ring, for Ka-the Queen. I designed it myself, hence my worry. She mentioned once that green was her favourite colour so I thought an emerald would be good. And then I thought to add some orange, which is my favourite colour, but that would look a little odd, wouldn’t it? I chose gold instead, I hoped that’d be close enough. What do you think?”

Madge blinks at him in surprise. _How very sweet_.

“It is wonderful, my lord. I am sure the Queen will love it and the thought behind it.”

Peeta smiles at her and she cannot help but smile back.

“Thank you, Lady Madge, I appreciate your help.”

Madge nods.

“My pleasure and may I say, congratulations on your betrothal, your Grace,” she adds and he bites his lip around a silly, great smile.

“Thank you. It is quite unexpected, my parents certainly never thought I’d amount to anything, being the third son and all.”

“And now look, you are to be a king,” she points out and Peeta grins but then shrugs.

“Oh I don’t know about that, it’s Katniss’ kingdom. I don’t want to step on any toes, only help where she needs.”

He says it sincerely and Madge stares at him. _Either you are too good to be true, Peeta of Burgundy, or you a magnificent liar._

“Peeta?”

They both turn and Katniss is standing in the doorway, looking shocked to see him. Madge curtsies and Peeta bows.

“Your Majesty, I was hoping you might join me for a walk in the garden,” he says and Katniss’ eyes widen. She looks over at Madge who nods in encouragement. Katniss clears her throat.

“I suppose I have time for a short walk,” she says and Peeta beams. He offers her his arm.

“Wonderful.”

Katniss takes the arm and they set out, Madge watching them go. She cannot help but wonder if this arranged marriage may turn out to be a happy one and as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she very much hopes it does.

* * *

( _traitor_ )

* * *

 

Eltham in July is warm and golden, the flowers fragrant and the sun shining above.

A great tournament is to be held to celebrate the royal engagement and Madge watches all the preparations with a sense of awe, a twinge of excitement in her gut. She has never been to a tournament and she cannot help being entranced by the spectacle of it all. Labourers crawl all over the tiltyard to ensure it’s ready while lords and knights from all over the kingdom arrive, joined by their counterparts from Burgundy. Each one is splendidly attired, squires and pages trailing after them bearing their heraldic arms, each one more intricate than the last. There is an enthusiasm all throughout the palace, touching each and every one of them and Madge feels it too, a happy balm to all her worries.

Annie helps her dress the morning of, lacing her into a yellow kirtle and then a pretty light blue houppelande patterned with gold. She ties many a ribbon in her hair, hooks a thin gold chain around her neck and Madge makes sure to bring an extra scarf or two just in case any handsome knight asks to wear her favour.

(of course, there’s only one she actually wants to ask)

She makes her way to Katniss’ chambers then and Prim is already there, dressed in pink and silver. As a married woman her hair is bound up beneath a conical hennin, its floaty veils fluttering down her back. She beams as Madge enters, her face bright with excitement, and they quickly begin readying Katniss for the day, Madge dabbing her with rosewater and Prim smoothing gold dust over her skin. She glitters as they lace her into a crimson houppelande over a dark, dark purple kirtle and then tie pretty red and yellow ribbons into her freshly washed hair, which seems to shine in the sunlight. They drape her in all the jewels gifted her by the Burgundians, including the fat betrothal ring from Peeta, and then comes the final touch, Prim gently placing a golden crown studded with precious gems on her head.

She stands, looking every inch a Queen and Prim sighs.

 “Oh Katniss, you look magnificent.”

Katniss smiles tightly and Madge hands her a gold embroidered handkerchief to bring as a favour, one small thought niggling at the back of her mind.

_Katniss, who once led men into battle, I wonder if she’d rather be participating in this tournament than presiding over it._

They make their way down to the yard where Lord Peeta is waiting to escort Katniss to the stands. He is dressed in crimson silk to match Katniss’ gown, a silver circlet in his hair. He smiles as they approach, his eyes lighting up, and Madge is not even sure he notices her or Prim, his gaze entirely for Katniss.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, sweeping into a bow and Madge has to commend him, for she doubts many men would be so gracious when their fiancée so outrageously outranks them. Katniss nods to him and he holds out his arm, his smile making Madge think of summer and sunshine. Katniss takes it with light fingers and then they walk out in the daylight, Madge and Prim trailing behind them. Great wooden stands have been erected on either side of the tournament field and banners and pennants hang from every surface, the ones on the right covered in cats, white roses and Saint George’s cross, while those on the left bear the arms of Burgundy. Garlands of flowers are draped around the stands as well, helping to offset the smell of horses and Madge is enchanted, truly. Peeta and Katniss lead them up to the royal viewing platform, covered over with a silk awning to guard from the sun. They both sit in finely crafted thrones while Prim and Madge sit on cushioned benches to Katniss’ right.

“I’ve never seen a tournament before,” Prim whispers to Madge, a hint of an excited squeal leaking through.

“Me neither,” she confides and they share a grin.

“Your Majesty,” a voice says from Madge’s right and she turns to see Glimmer Mowbray dropping into a curtsy. Her future step-sister-in-law is tall and willowy, with delicate features, ample bosom, amber eyes and flowing silver-blonde hair. She is beautiful certainly, without question, but there is something about the set of her rose pink lips and the way she looks down her thin nose that has always rubbed Madge the wrong way.

(well, that and her frequent temper tantrums)

“Lady Glimmer,” Katniss greets, somewhat bemused and Glimmer straightens up, diamonds sparkling around her slender neck. She moves towards their bench, shoots Madge an annoyed look and then sits in a rustle of emerald silk.

(she can only assume the look is because Glimmer believes she ought to sit closer to the royal person than Madge)

Madge blinks and then turns to Prim. They share a look, because how unbelievably presumptuous of Glimmer to invite herself to the royal booth, especially considering the current climate of family relations. _Well, she at least matches Marvel in her sense of self-importance._ Katniss, unlike many royals, says nothing.

The stands begin to fill up with brightly dressed lords and ladies, the tournament’s beginning inching ever closer. Madge watches as the Salisbury family (minus Gale) files in just below them and she knows better than to look for Haymitch or her mother. They’re both still at Baynard’s Castle and the entire court is abuzz with gossip. Haymitch’s refusal to come is an obvious slight and everyone waits with bated breath to see how Katniss will react, the dissention between the chief Yorkists giving birth to all sorts of scurrilous whispers.

(and Madge, oddly, is nowhere near as pleased as she should be)

A horn bleats and then out come the men on their horses, done up in their armour with their helmets tucked beneath their arms. Each one of them shines and a thrilled hush falls over the crowd. The knights each make their way over to the stands to beg a favour from their preferred lady and Madge can feel something tight curl in her stomach.

“Oh there’s Darius, doesn’t he look handsome?” Prim swoons and Madge follows her line of sight. Darius is riding over to them with a wide grin, his orange hair looking almost aflame in the bright sun. He bows before them and doesn’t even get a chance to ask for Prim’s favour before she’s already jumped up and rushed to the edge of the platform, a collection of ribbons in hand.

“I hope those are for me,” he teases and Prim turns pink.

“Oh hush, who else would I give them to? I brought a bunch in case you lose one, after all, you’ll be doing rather strenuous work.”

He laughs just as Marvel arrives to ask for Glimmer’s favour.

“My most beloved Lady Glimmer, may I have the great honour of bearing your favour into battle?” he asks loudly for all to hear and Madge barely stops her eyes from rolling.

“Of course, my dear great Earl,” she replies and hands him a glove that he pins onto his armour. He dons his very plumed helmet and bows to her, fist pressed to his heart. Glimmer curtsies with great flourish and then comes the Duke of Burgundy’s middle son, Lord Philip. He looks taller than Peeta, his hair a shade or two darker and his face thinner. He bows deeply before Katniss, his armor so bright it is nearly blinding, and she presents him with her handkerchief, as he will be fighting as Burgundy’s champion in Peeta’s honour.

Prim takes her seat and waves Darius off, her cheeks very pink, before she elbows Madge in the side. Madge frowns at her but Prim merely grins and points. Madge follows her finger and feels her heart do something silly, for there is Gale looking like he’s stepped straight out of a chivalric romance. He inclines his head.

“Lady Madge, would you do me the honour of granting me your favour?”

Madge smoothes out the scarf she’d brought in her lap.

“Of course, Sir Gale. It is my honour to see my favour worn by England’s gallant champion.”

Gale smiles and holds up his arm. Madge stands and walks to the edge of the platform, aware of all the eyes watching her. While Lord Philip will fight as Burgundy’s champion, Gale will represent England and so whose favour he wears throughout the tournament is of much interest to all. She can feel her face growing hot as she ties her scarf around his arm and he winks, her stomach flipping over itself.

“I wish you good luck Sir Gale,” she says and he bows his head again.

“I shall endeavour to be worthy of your favour, my good lady,” he says and she watches him trot off to join the rest of the men. She returns to her seat and Glimmer’s expression has gone sour, her arms folded across her chest. On a guess, Madge would say it is because she is upset England’s champion did not ask for her favour.

(ignoring, of course, that she has a fiancé)

Madge ignores her and then there comes more horn blasts, signifying, finally, that the tournament is about to begin. The men and their attendants clear away, the first event being the individual jousts. The plan, whenever possible, is to pit a Burgundian against an English man and everyone waits with bated breath as a herald steps into the middle of the field and puffs up his chest.

“In the first match, Sir Thom Oakfield, Baron Holand and Baron Lovell facing Sir Robert de Poche!” he announces and the people cheer, their voices rising in a great roar. Thom and Sir Robert arrange themselves at either end of the jousting lane and their squires rush about, handing them their lances and hurriedly checking their and their horses’ armour. Both of them finally assume position and lower their lances, the whole crowd leaning forward in anticipation. The signal is given and they both go charging forward, their horses’ hooves beating into the dirt. They meet in a terrible clang of metal and Madge flinches. Neither one falls and they both turn at the end of the field, ready for another pass.

“Come on, Thom!” Prim yells and they collide again, their lances splintering, but both still managing to stay seated. Their squires quickly hand them new lances and they ready for the final attempt, both itching to give their country the first victory of the day. The whole of Eltham seems to hold its breath as they go thundering towards each other and this time Thom’s lance strikes true. Sir Robert is unseated and sent crashing to the ground, his helmet rolling off as he hits the dirt. The stands explode with noise and Prim throws her hands up in the air in celebration, her voice joining the chorus of cheers all around. Madge leans forward in concern as Sir Robert’s squires help him up and the screaming fans are nearly deafening, their excitement bright and pulsing. Thom lifts his visor and waves to the crowd, his smile wide, before the herald steps out to announce another pair.

The jousts continue all morning, Darius tying in his match while Marvel and Philippa’s brother the Earl of Lincoln bring home victory. The results are fairly even between the two nations and everyone buzzes with excitement as the final match arrives, the herald having to wait several minutes for the spectators to quiet.

“In the final match, Sir Gale Hawthorne, Lord High Constable of England, Earl of Salisbury, Knight of the Garter and Champion of England against Lord Philip of Burgundy, Knight of the Golden Fleece and Champion of Burgundy!”

The stands erupt, clapping, stamping their feet and screaming. Madge clasps her hands as they ready themselves, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Both Gale and Lord Phillip look magnificent as they take position, each one in shining armor atop a noble steed.

And then they’re off, Madge’s heart stopping in her chest.

They crash into each other, Gale’s lance splintering to pieces and his shield thrown off while Lord Philip’s whole body snaps backwards in his saddle. Madge covers her eyes and everyone holds their breath, but he manages to stay on, the stands groaning as one. Madge lowers her hands and both knights ride off to meet their squires. Gale is given a new shield and lance, Lord Philip shakes his head like a dog and then they are back at it, their horses charging down the field towards each other.

_You can do it Gale, you can do it_

Gale’s strike is perfect, Lord Philip catching his lance full in the chest. He is launched from his horse and slams down on his back in the dirt, Peeta half standing in concern. The crowd explodes as never before, shrieking and shouting, and even Katniss gets in on the action, spinning Peeta’s hat above her head in triumph. Lord Philip is helped to his feet and Gale lifts up his visor to wave at them, white roses and ladies’ favours thrown down at his feet. He smiles, her scarf around his arm and Madge feels something odd come over her, something dangerous.

(England’s champion and there’s a part of her, smothered under denial, that wishes he were her champion, only hers)

* * *

There is a break before the next event, for the men to rest and have refreshments, so Prim and Madge make their way down to the Salisbury clan. Philippa waves them over and they squeeze in beside her.

“Did you see John? Wasn’t he amazing?” she asks, smile proud as she speaks of her brother and Madge nods.

“Oh yes,” Prim agrees, “he was wonderful.”

“Darius was very good too,” Philippa says, “I don’t know how his opponent managed to stay on that horse.”

“I just hope he isn’t too disappointed,” Prim sighs and Philippa squeezes her hand.

“Oh I’m sure he won’t be, he has you as a prize doesn’t he?” she teases and Prim turns red.  “Speaking of, do you see that Burgundian over there? With the black hair? Yes, well he asked for my favour, can you believe it? I had to turn him down of course; I’d already given it to John, but still of all the ladies here, he wanted _my_ favour.”

“Does Rory know?” Prim asks and Philippa rolls her eyes.

“How would he? He’s been so busy all morning being Gale’s squire he hasn’t said a single word to me. He’s upset with me anyways, because you know, he very much wanted to compete today and I told him he hadn’t a chance. I didn’t mean it to be rude, it’s only that he’s thirteen and everyone else is a good deal older. He took it wrong though and hasn’t spoken to me since. So no, he doesn’t know and I doubt he’d care even if he did.”

As if summoned by his name, Rory appears out of the crowd, his whole face lit up with enthusiasm. Madge is the first to notice him and she smiles in greeting but he doesn’t seem to notice, making a beeline straight for Vick.

“Look at this!” he crows, holding out half a broken lance and Vick’s eyes go very wide. “Lord Philip gave it to me.”

Vick leans very far forward and Petronella grabs him by the doublet as if afraid he’ll lean right out of the stands.

“That’s incredible,” he sighs in envy and Madge exchanges a confused look with Prim. What exactly, is so exciting about a broken lance? Madge has no idea, but then, she isn’t a boy.

“Here, you have it,” Rory says and Vick’s mouth actually drops open.

“Really?”

Rory nods and Vick takes it with shaking hands, as if it is something unfathomably precious. Rory grins as Vick hugs it to his chest.

“This is amazing,” he breathes, “thanks Rory!”

Rory shrugs.

“Don’t worry about it. Next time I’ll compete and you can be my squire,” he boasts and Vick nods eagerly. Philippa stares at Rory, clearly awaiting some kind of acknowledgement and Prim sends Madge an exasperated look. Clearly fed up, Prim steps purposefully on Philippa’s foot, giving her a very pointed look when she turns around to glare. Philippa frowns but then sighs.

“My lord,” she says in a tone that suggests she thinks it’s ridiculous she has to call him that, “allow me to commend you on your excellent showing as Sir Gale’s squire. I doubt the Earl would have done anywhere near as well without your service.”

Madge thinks that might be a bit overboard and Rory clearly agrees, turning to look at her with a confused expression.

“I cannot wait until the next tournament, as I am sure you will be an outstanding competitor,” she continues and Rory rolls his eyes.

“You could always just apologize instead of whatever this is supposed to be,” he says and Philippa scowls.

“I’ve nothing to apologize for. And sorry for trying to give you a compliment,” she huffs and Petronella leans over to whisper in Vick’s ear.

“Why are they always fighting?” she asks and Vick shakes his head.

“Because they’re weird,” he whispers back and Petronella nods in agreement.

“Right,” Rory says sceptically, “thanks then. I’m so glad I have your support.”

Philippa opens her mouth but Prim elbows her and then hurriedly speaks before she can.

“Me too Rory, I’m sure you’ll be excellent.”

“Oh yes,” Madge says after an insistent look from Prim, “I have full confidence in you.”

Rory grins.

“Thank you, ladies; I’ll try my best to live up to your expectations.”

“Well of course you’ll be good, you practise all the time and you have great form, I only meant you’d lose because you’re younger than everyone else, not because I think you’re awful,” Philippa butts in and then looks embarrassed at having given him an actual compliment. Rory is also caught off guard and he blinks at her several times, unsure what to say.

“Oh,” he finally manages, “I’m...sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“No,” Philippa agrees, not looking at him, “you shouldn’t have.”

Neither one of them says anything else and the awkwardness of their silence is almost painful. Thankfully the horns start blaring, indicating a recommencing of the festivities and Rory leaps at the chance to scramble off. Philippa slumps in her seat.

“That was awful; I think I liked it better when he wasn’t speaking to me.”

Prim glares and swats her shoulder.

“You’re so frustrating; I can’t understand your determination to be miserable.”

Another horn blast interrupts any response of Philippa’s and Madge and Prim return to their seats for the afternoon’s grand event. It is the main component of the tournament and the one everyone is most excited to see. The melee. The English knights led by Gale will fight against the Burgundians led by Lord Philip in one great battle to prove their superiority and when it’s done, Katniss will hand out prizes to whichever knights prove themselves to be the most valuable. 

The two sides step out on either end of the field and people scream out the names of their favourites, each knight rocking on their heels and raring to go. Prim squeezes Madge’s hand as the signal to begin is given, the two sides rushing to meet each other. It is only a mock battle of course, but Madge still finds it hard to watch, her father’s bloody death creeping into her mind. It is chaotic and crowded, Madge unable to pick out any individuals as they clash but she cheers whenever Prim does just to seem as if she knows what’s going on.

The battle lasts all afternoon and she wonders if they’ll have to call it off and start again tomorrow lest they lose the light when the stands around her begin to roar in approval. Madge focuses back down on the field and sees that most of the men seem to have given up, only two figures still circling each other. She recognizes Gale immediately by her scarf and assumes his opponent must be Lord Philip. The crowd cheers them on, though more for Gale than for Philip, and Madge finds herself getting sucked in as well.

“Come on, come on,” she whispers as Gale catches Lord Philip’s sword with his and then pushes hard, managing to unbalance his opponent. Philip stumbles and Gale presses his advantage, the _clang clang_ of their swords ringing in her ears. Lord Philip, clearly exhausted, makes one last desperate swing but Gale ducks beneath it and shoulders him in the chest, sending him down to the ground. He holds his sword just before Philip’s throat and the English knights; followed by the crowd, leap to their feet to acclaim his triumph. Madge is standing too, clapping and shouting until her voice is raw but the thrill of it all is contagious, sweeping her up in this tide of pride and joy. Gale drops his sword and offers Lord Philip a hand, pulling him up to stand beside him. Together they wave and bow to the masses, flowers and favours showering down on them. Katniss stands while a servant brings out the prizes but Madge only has eyes for Gale.

He is rewarded with the grandest of the prizes, a crown of laurels for his head, a fancy new sword and a bag of coins. He accepts them with a grin and then turns back to the crowd to bask in their adulation and though Madge is meant to hate him and all these Yorkists, if you asked right now if she did, she’d be unable to say yes.

(not that she’d admit that of course)

* * *

A little over a week later, Marvel and Glimmer marry in Cold Harbour’s private chapel.

Marvel makes certain everything is done up in grand style for his nuptials, including a mass of jewel encrusted peacock figurines that crowd up the halls and every surface. The whole house is filled to the brim with white roses, Marvel’s arms and those of the Duke of Norfolk are everywhere and in the supper hall are peacock ice sculptures and, most over the top of all, a wine fountain.

Madge herself is granted leave by Katniss to attend and though she is glad to see her mother again, the awkwardness of the atmosphere is something she could do without. Marvel and Glimmer have been sure to invite all the great and grand of England, and many have come, but those who haven’t are the main talking point of the event, even more so than the wedding happening before them.

Katniss does not come and just as Haymitch staying away from the tournament was a clear insult, so is this. Prim and Darius are absent as well and so are many others, clearly unwilling to look as if they are favouring Haymitch in this quarrel. Vile rumours and vicious whispers stalk the entire ceremony, speculation rife as to what is to come next in this ongoing saga. Will Haymitch lose all favour? Will the Queen cave to his demands? And what of the rest of the Yorkists, which side will they choose? Is the Queen in the right? Haymitch? Will this rift ever heal? Battle lines have been drawn and Madge know she should rejoice in this fracturing of the Yorkists, but instead all she feels is uneasy.

_Which side am I meant to choose?_

_Do I even get a choice?_

The biggest talking point of all though, is that the Salisbury family all attends, Gale at the head. Madge herself is caught off guard, after all, Gale is not only Katniss’ staunchest ally, but Haymicth is as angry at him as he is Katniss. The assembled guests ignore Marvel and Glimmer as they say their vows, all too busy trying to decipher Gale’s appearance and Madge cannot help but fall into the same trap.

_What is he doing here?_

_What does this mean?_

* * *

The food served after the wedding is both scrumptious and excessive. There are platters upon platters of tarts, pastries, sugared fruits, crepes and honey drenched bread; great bowls of custard and pudding; savoury meats smothered in fragrant sauces and five large roasted peacocks with their feathers glittering. The wine fountain flows while servers hand out mead and ale and a magnificent assortment of aged cheeses. It’s a truly outstanding show of wealth, but entirely unnecessary. She doubts there’s anyone in the kingdom that doesn’t know Marvel is one of its richest inhabitants, but still he persists, presenting them all with a perfect replica of Cold Harbour made of marchpane.

Madge eats little, too occupied with thoughts and observations, while Marvel parades Glimmer around the room, boasting loudly of her beauty and charms. He smiles at everyone, shakes their hands and puts on the perfect appearance of the blissful bridegroom (until he reaches Madge of course, whom he deliberately snubs), but Haymitch stays knotted in a corner with a group of well dressed men, their words hushed and their expressions drawn. It’s rude to stare but Madge does so anyway, wishing desperately that she could hear what’s being said. _Who are they? What do they want?_

“A word, Lady Madge?”

She turns and there is Gale, solemn but still impossibly handsome.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” she says quietly, not wanting to inflame the gossips anymore than they already are. Gale sighs heavily.

“I didn’t want to be, but my mother did and she’s quite cross over this whole affair, you know. I wasn’t going to come with her, but then I realised I might use this opportunity to my advantage.”

Madge furrows her brow.

“Are you going to try and make up?”

Gale frowns, his eyebrows drawing into a perfect V.

“No, he’s the one that ought to be making amends. But I thought I might ask his permission for your hand.”

Madge inhales sharply and Gale takes her hand, his fingers sliding through hers.

“That is, unless you’ve changed your mind,” he says softly and Madge shakes her head.

“Never,” she whispers and Gale smiles, sweet and warm. Madge feels her chest tighten. He takes a step forward but then seems to remember they’re in public and steps back instead. He clears his throat.

“I’m hoping today’s happy occasion might soften him and anyways, even with our quarrel, there’s no real reason for him to refuse. He’s upset with me certainly, but I’ve done nothing so awful as to make me an unsuitable husband.”

Madge nods and squeezes his hand before releasing it. She curtsies with all due respect, as if this was nothing more than your average formal chat and Gale follows suit, bowing low. He kisses her fingertips, his breath soft on her skin.

“Wish me luck,” he murmurs and “Good luck,” she breathes. She watches him head over to Haymitch and that group of men crowded around him disperses immediately at Gale’s approach, some wary while others smile and nod with perfect grace.

_What are they up to?_

Haymitch’s face remains neutral throughout Gale’s petition, but his answer is clear even from across the room. One short, sharp word that makes Gale stiffen and wraps around Madge’s heart like a fist.

_No._

Haymitch’s expression never changes as he says something else to Gale and then leaves, sweeping her mother up into a dance. Gale’s hands clench and Madge feels as if the ground beneath her feet has simply disappeared.

_How is this possible?_

_He said no._

_No._

_He won’t let me marry Gale._

Her every plan is thwarted but worse, worse is the painful feeling below her ribs, as if someone has stuck a knife straight through her. She does not bother to think about it, to ponder what it means, she simply feels it, sharp and sad and devastating.

_He said no._

* * *

Madge is meant to be embroidering but all she can think about is Haymitch’s refusal, the cold weight of it seeping into her bones.

_How could he say no?_

She is angry, furious even, that he would deny them this. It is her life, not his, and she wants to marry Gale. _How dare he_ , she wants to shout, her fingers shaking. _This isn’t fair, it isn’t right._

Annie’s whisper cuts through her haze of anger, her voice like a knife in the silence of Madge’s chamber.

“There is discontent in the streets,” she says and Madge looks over at her in surprise. “People, rich and poor, are not pleased with some of Queen Katniss’ decisions. She is too aloof, she is a woman, she is making a foreigner king and she rewards only her family members, leaving most of the aristocracy out in the cold. Not to mention the disaster with the French. The people do not trust her.”

Madge wants to deny it, but then…was this not what Haymitch had been warning about from the start? She insults the nobles by refusing to have their wives, daughters and sisters as ladies-in-waiting; she arranges incredibly lucrative marriages for her relatives, leaving everyone else to scramble; she ventures only rarely out into public and her foreign policy has infuriated the French and left the Lancastrians stronger than ever.

Perhaps people are right to be upset.

“No ruler is universally beloved. I am sure this discontent will pass,” Madge says firmly and then smiles over at Annie. Annie looks down at her embroidery without a word.

Madge feels her smile drop.

* * *

The royal wedding happens on a stiflingly hot August day, the air muggy and humid.

Madge wakes up and she is already sticky with sweat, not a single breath of wind flittering through her window. Annie helps her dress in silence and Madge tells herself it is only because it is far too hot to muster the effort to talk.

( _what else could it be?_ )

She heads over to Katniss’ chambers and her dress feels too heavy, the fabric clinging to her heated skin. Everyone she passes looks sluggish and she can feel it too, the oppressive temperature leeching away any and all motivation she has. The same does not appear true for Prim, who babbles on excitedly as she brushes out Katniss’ hair, her short hennin glittering with gold thread. Madge readies Katniss’ gown while Prim winds pearl strings through her dark hair, her skin already sweet smelling with rose water and sparkling faintly with diamond dust. Her expression is tense, not a hint of joy to be found and _what a somber bride she makes_.

“Oh, you have so much to look forward to Katniss, being married is just wonderful,” Prim gushes but Katniss does not react, her face still drawn tight. _Does she not want to marry Peeta? Or perhaps she does not wish to marry at all._ She stands and they lace her into a silver kirtle, the material heavy with costly jewels. There are cats made of golden thread with twinkling emerald eyes and ruby studded collars as well as white roses outlined in pearls. Over top goes her houppelande, slashed up the front so her kirtle can show. The gown is gold silk and covered over in diamond stars with pearl edging along the hem. The cuffs and collar are velvet while her girdle is a deep red and patterned with golden crowns. They hang diamonds framed in silver suns on her ears and then a fine diamond necklace to match. On her head goes a simple tiara of gold and garnets, and they leave her hands clear of rings except for Peeta’s betrothal ring. Personally, Madge thinks the whole look might be a little much, though its opulence certainly cannot be denied.

“You look beautiful,” Prim trills and Katniss merely nods. She leads them down to the chapel, every hall cleaned intensely and dripping in flowered garlands, and _this is it_. The chapel doors are opened and Madge and Prim carry Katniss’ great long train, Peeta waiting up front in gem encrusted royal blue. He stares at Katniss the entire time, entirely enchanted, and Madge tries not to think of the wedding denied her.

 _This is no time to be bitter_ , she lectures herself, but still, there is an ache in her, one she cannot be rid of. She does not look at Gale as they make their way to Peeta, knows it would be far too painful a thing to do. She must have hope that Haymitch will change his mind. _Soon, he will reconcile with Gale and happily give us his blessing._

_Soon, we shall marry._

(and if that thought makes her happier than it should, well, she’ll never tell)

* * *

The feasting and celebrating that follows is magnificent, though it leaves a rather sour taste in Madge’s mouth.

Every time Gale attempts to ask her to dance, Marvel manages to swoop in and drag her away. He has finally given up avoiding her, though only it seems, to thrwart her. She can see the frustration rising on Gale’s face and there is a sore on her heart growing ever larger, alongside a virulent sort of anger.

_So that is their game is it?_

_Deny him and then force us apart, why? In hopes he will abandon his petition?_

_He would never._

_He loves me. He will not abandon me._

_I know he won’t._

* * *

 

The wedding does not go over particularly well with the people, as it turns out.

They are not pleased to have a foreign king, especially one that has made them an enemy of France. It does not matter what Peeta is personally like, nor what an alliance with him will give them. A foreigner on their throne, the fear of alien occupation makes them sick, terrified and they whisper it to each other, bubbling over with unhappiness.

(worst of all, is that the Lancastrian remnants hear these whispers and see their opportunity. They will fan these embers into a flame and when they do, there will be only one possible outcome for England)

(war)

* * *

The court returns to Westminster in September, without either Marvel or Haymitch. They return to their properties in the countryside and Madge cannot help but be uneasy. Many other nobles leave London as well, all with perfectly reasonable explanations, but Madge cannot shake her wariness.

She tries to find joy in the fact that her mother has remained behind at Baynard’s but the situation in England is becoming more volatile by the day. This exodus of nobility makes the Queen more vulnerable than ever and _is this merely a coincidence? Or are these nobles up to something?_

Madge does not know which outcome she is meant to favour.

* * *

Madge returns to her room after she’s readied Katniss for bed and finds Annie stitching quietly in the corner. She walks over and Annie is embroidering her dolphin and that wyvern she is so fond of side by side in a frame. Madge smiles.

“That’s beautiful,” she says and Annie’s shoulders tense.

“Thank you, my lady,” she replies, her voice stiff. Madge frowns.

“Why are you being so formal?” she asks and Annie finally stills her needle, though she does not look up.

“That is the appropriate manner for a maid and her mistress, is it not?”

“But I’m not your mistress,” Madge says in confusion, “I’m your friend.”

Annie stands abruptly, her fingers tight on the wooden frame of her embroidery.

“No,” she says vehemently, “you’re not.”

“What?” Madge asks, voice weak with shock, and feels as if Annie has slapped her. “Why not?”

“I am not friends with Yorkists,” Annie spits and she does look at Madge finally, her eyes hot with an angry fire. Madge steps back.

“I’m not a Yorkist.”

“Aren’t you? You’re in love with the Earl of Salisbury, you’re friends with the Duchess of Buckingham and the Queen, you probably don’t even want the Lancastrians to come back!”

Annie does not give her the chance to answer, she merely whirls on her heel and storms out. Madge watches her go, too horrified even to speak.

_A Yorkist?_

_In love with Gale?_

_I’m not._

_I can’t be._

_I can’t._

* * *

Unable to face anyone at Westminster with Annie’s words echoing in her ears, Madge flees to her mother at Cold Harbour.

_I am not friends with Yorkists_

Annie’s accusations stick in her skin like needles as she sits in her mother’s solar, each one sharp and damning.

_You’re in love with the Earl of Salisbury_

“Glimmer is pregnant,” her mother says mildly as she embroiders and Madge barely hears her.

_You probably don’t even want the Lancastrians to come back!_

“Oh?” she asks, the fury in Annie’s eyes all she can see.

“Yes, about two months along. It might even have been a wedding night baby. They’ve not told anyone else, as it’s so early, but a step-mother does have certain privileges.”

“Indeed,” Madge agrees, not paying anywhere near enough attention to notice the way her mother’s eyes narrow.

“They’re quite excited of course, who wouldn’t be? The baby should be born in March, you might even share a birthday.”

“How wonderful,” Madge murmurs and her mother sighs, setting down her embroidery.

“What’s the matter, my love?” she asks and Madge blinks before looking over at her mother in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Madge, please. I am your mother; it is not hard to see that something is bothering you. Now, what is it?”

Madge bites her lip, all of Annie’s recriminations crowding in on her.

_I’m your friend_

_No, you’re not_

“Annie and I have had a fight,” she starts and hates the way her voice trembles. Her mother frowns.

“About the Earl of Salisbury?”

The question hits Madge like a slap to the face.

_You’re in love with the Earl of Salisbury_

“Why would you-why…” Madge cannot finish and she merely stares at her mother, entirely appalled. Margaret reaches over and squeezes her hand.

“I have seen the two of you together; there is no denying how much he means to you. I’m sure Anne has noticed as well.”

Madge shakes her head slowly and her stomach tosses with illness. _No. No_. She stands suddenly, restlessness churning in her muscles.

“Annie accused me of being a Yorkist. She thinks I’m in love with Gale, that I’m friends with Prim and Katniss,” she rattles off as she paces, her voice a bit higher than she’d like. Her mother watches her thoughtfully.

“Are you?” she asks and Madge freezes, her heart lurching.

“That’s-don’t be ridiculous. That’s ridiculous,” she says and tries to laugh but she can’t, her breath coming quick and shallow.

“Is it? I’ve seen you together, and indeed, I would have to agree with Anne.”

Madge shakes her head again and her mother’s words are like hammer blows, like battering rams against the shield she has been hiding behind.

_You’re in love with the Earl of Salisbury_

_No, I’m not!_

Madge feels almost like she’s forgotten how to breathe and she clutches at her throat, her mother’s eyes wide with alarm.

“Madge,” she says in concern, reaching out a hand and Madge stumbles away, nearly tripping over her skirts.

_I have seen the two of you together; there is no denying how much he means to you_

_Shut up!_

She feels her legs fold up beneath her and she sinks down to the floor, horror creeping over all her limbs.

_You’re in love with the Earl of Salisbury_

“No, no. I can’t be, I can’t. He’s the enemy. I don’t. I can’t, I can’t.”

She means to sound sure, but there is no conviction to her words, only desperation. Her mother stands from her chair and takes a few tentative steps closer.

“Madge-”

“No! I don’t love him, or any of them. They killed father, they’re the enemy! I can’t love them, I hate them. I hate them. I do, _I do_.”

Her mother’s eyes are sad and Madge feels the dam inside her break, a great flood of tears breaking over her. She drops her head into her hands and sobs, her entire body heaving.

_You’re in love with the Earl of Salisbury_

_Am I?_

She thinks of him, of his smile, his eyes, the way her skin tingles at his touch. She thinks of him with Posy, thinks of his kindness and the way her heart pounds when he’s near. She thinks of every letter he’s written her, of how it feels to walk with him, talk with him, the way joy had nearly swallowed her at his proposal. She thinks of Gale, from his stubbornness to his teaching her archery to his kisses, his sense of humour to his motto to that heraldry book he’d bought her. She thinks of Gale, every part of him, and the answer is clear.

Cold certainty begins to fill her and she can feel all her walls of denial start to crumble, layer after layer crashing down around her.

_It was never guilt, never illness. I love him. I want to marry him._

_Traitor_

“Oh Madge, oh my darling,” her mother coos, kneeling down beside her and wrapping her in her arms. Madge leans into her embrace and weeps and weeps, her heart plunged into despair. _I am wicked, I am foul, I am…_ she can’t even think of the word; for there are none that could ever hope to describe the depth of her sin.

“Hush, my love, hush, there is no need to cry,” her mother soothes, stroking her hair. Madge shakes her head, shakes her whole body and wishes she could shake away the filth she can feel clinging to her skin.

“I am…I am horrible, I am despicable, I’m-” she breaks off in a sob and again, she cannot even conceive of the words needed to describe just how terrible she is. “I have b-betrayed you, Father, Annie,” she chokes out and her mother grabs her shoulders.

“Madge, look at me. Look at me,” she says sternly and Madge does, peeking through her splayed fingers. Her mother frowns.

“Do you think Gale is a good man?”

Madge feels another wave of sorrow crash over her, the taint of betrayal curdling her stomach.

“I cannot-I…I’m sorry,” she weeps, dropping her head but her mother doesn’t allow it, lifting Madge’s chin with her hand.

“Sweetheart, do you think he’s a good man?”

Madge swallows her protests and the answer is obvious of course.

“Yes,” she whispers, because she does, of course she does.

“Does he make you happy?”

Madge bites her lip, feels a knife in her gut and _oh father, I am sorry, I am so sorry_.

“Yes,” she breathes and wishes she could deny it still. Her mother nods.

“Then what reason is there to cry so?”

“Because…because he is the enemy! He fought against father!”

“He did,” her mother agrees and Madge feels that like another slap to the face, the horrid truth of her betrayal ringing in her ears. “He was our enemy. But my darling, the war is over now. If you believe him to be a good man, if he makes you happy, then I rejoice in that, as your father would.”

“No, no,” Madge starts and her mother squeezes her shoulders.

“Yes Madge, yes. If you carry this war with you, you will be miserable all your days, poisoned by vengeance and suffering. I do not feel betrayed Madge, nor would your father. All we have ever wanted is to see you happy. Denying yourself that happiness is the only way you could ever betray us, my sweet, sweet love.”

Her mother hugs her then, hugs her tight and Madge melts into that embrace, clinging to her like she might never let go.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Madge cries into her mother’s shoulder, guilt like a living thing writhing about inside of her.

“Do not be. Do you remember what I told you? We must survive Madge, no matter the cost. You need not feel ashamed, not with me. I love you,” her mother says and Madge grabs hold of that, binds it to her grief. She takes that love, acceptance, support and wraps it around her seeping wounds, tries to lessen the violent sting of her own betrayal.

_She isn’t angry, they aren’t betrayed._

_We must survive, happiness is no sin._

(but still, there is a loathing in her heart, a nasty whisper in her ear)

( _no matter how much they love me, no matter how happy they are, I am a traitor_ )

( _and Annie, oh Annie, will you ever forgive me?_ )

_(will I ever forgive myself?)_

* * *

 

(Annie carries out her duties with venom in her heart, its poison slowly leaking into her blood.

_How could she do this to me?_

_She is a traitor, she is in love with a Yorkist! She is a Yorkist, she might as well be! How could she, how could she?_

_And what about you_ , comes the vicious whisper in her head _, how could you be so cruel to her, the only friend you have?_

_She is no friend of mine! She’s betrayed me, betrayed us all! The Yorkists are monsters, villains! They care nothing for England, they love only themselves and their lust for power. I cannot forgive her for this._

Annie tries to shake the tears from her eyes and sweeps away the dead leaves of a plant by the window. The curled brown leaves sit on top of a book, Madge’s heraldry book, and Annie feels as if she’s been punched in the gut.

_How could you do this to me?_

She is angry, furious even, but the worst of it, the very worst part, is that she does not want to be. She should be enraged, unable to forgive, but she knows she could, knows that she does not want to lose Madge, no matter how much she should want to. The only happy memories she’s made since Lancaster’s defeat have been with Madge  and as much as she wants to hate her, she can’t, not really.

_She is my friend_

_My only friend_

Madge has betrayed her, betrayed Lancaster and both their fathers, _Finnick_ , but Annie cannot bring herself to hate her.

_Madge is a traitor._

_(but so am I)_

* * *

Madge returns to her room, her heart a heavy weight in her chest, and Annie is bent over the bed fussing with the pillows. Madge stares at her back for a long moment, all while Annie gives no indication she’s even noticed her arrival.

_Forgive me Annie, please forgive me_

_I’m sorry_

“Might I have a word, Annie?” she asks, voice cracking, and Annie stops her work. She turns and curtsies, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Of course, my lady,” she responds, her words stiff and formal.

“I would like to apologize,” Madge starts and Annie blinks rapidly, her rigid mask starting to slip. “You were right, I am in love with the Earl of Salisbury. I had not meant to be, but I am.”

Annie’s fingers tighten in her skirt and Madge fights against the urge to beg at her feet for absolution, forgiveness.

“I meant to seduce him. I had hoped that he would protect me, my mother, you even. I wanted to use his power, his influence, to see the King freed and Lancaster restored.”

Annie looks up quickly, her expression cautious and disbelieving. Madge swallows.

“I had so many great plans, so many fine ambitions and I haven’t given them all up. I fell in love and yes, I have come to care for several of the Yorkists, they are not all so evil, as it turns out. I cannot deny any of that, not anymore. But I have not forgotten who I am, or who my father was. And I do not want the Lancastrians to stay in exile, certainly not your father or your Finnick.” She pauses, tongue heavy. “I don’t really know what I want anymore. Except…I do want your friendship Annie. I am sorry if I have hurt you, I never meant to. I did not mean for any of this to happen.”

Madge closes her eyes and the silence is oppressive, each second lengthening into an hour.

“I am sorry too,” Annie whispers and Madge looks up in surprise. “The Yorkists have done far too much for me to ever forgive them and I do not trust them, I never will. I will never support their false claim to the throne, nor will I ever believe they fought for freedom rather than their own ambitions. I cannot undertsand your care, your love even, for them, but they have taken too much Madge, I will not let them have this.”

Magde presses her hands to her mouth, hope beating in her chest.

“You have been a good friend,” Annie continues, “the best friend I’ve ever had. I will not begrudge you your happiness, even if I will never understand it. The world is too bleak already, one of us at least should be happy.”

 “Oh Annie, you are the dearest friend I’ve ever had. I would give up all my happiness if it meant you could have yours,” she swears and Annie smiles sadly.

“I would not want you to,” she says and Madge lurches forward to hug her.

“I may have fallen in love with Gale, but that does not mean I will abandon everything. I will see your happiness restored Annie, I swear.”

Annie’s arms come up around her and they just stand there, holding each other tight. Madge loves Gale, there will be no more denying it. But she loves Annie too and she cannot bear to see her suffer. When she and Gale are married ( _if_ comes a poisonous voice in her mind, _if_ ) she will beg him to pardon Annie’s father and Finnick, to retsore their lands and titles to them.

After all, what is the point in being happy if Annie is miserable?

* * *

Madge finds Gale in the stables with his horse and she walks right up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his back. Marvel and Haymitch are not here to ruin this and she breathes him in, fills her lungs and blood and organs with him until she feels him in every single part of her.

“I love you,” she says and this time she means it completely, entirely, no lies or subterfuge, but then, she’d meant it before too hadn’t she? She just hadn’t realized it yet. Gale covers her hands with his and squeezes.

“I love you too,” he promises and for just a moment, Madge forgets about politics and war and everything else. In this moment at least, she is just Madge, sixteen years old and in love with a wonderful boy.

And it feels amazing.

* * *

(Annie lies in bed and squeezes her ring, her heart throbbing.

_Father, Finnick, can you ever forgive me?_

_I should condemn her, I know I should._

_Do you hate me?_

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._

_Please forgive me_ )

* * *

September fades away beyond the palaces’ windows and Madge embroiders quietly while Katniss pours over a stack of stiff documents, Prim off riding with Rory and Philippa. Madge stitches her badge and Gale’s side by side on a cushion, a bitter voice inside of her wondering if this is as close as Gale and she will ever get to being united. Katniss sighs heavily.

“Majesty?” Madge asks and Katniss startles a little, as if she’d forgotten Madge was even in the room.

“Oh, Lady Madge. I’m sorry if I bothered you.”

“Of course not, your Majesty. Is anything the matter?”

Katniss looks at her for a long moment, so long in fact Madge begins to feel uncomfortable. She obviously has no intention of answering and Madge wonders if she’s offended her in some way. _Should I not have asked? Should I apologize?_

“I didn’t want this,” Katniss whispers and Madge freezes in surprise. “I wanted only to avenge my father, never to be queen. It was Haymitch’s idea, he said if I truly wanted to honour my father, it would not be enough to win the war. I would have to rule in his name. I wish I hadn’t listened.”

Katniss sounds miserable, exhausted and Madge cannot speak, her voice lost in shock and sympathy. She aches for her, as strange as it may be, and she understands that driving need to honour a beloved father even at so high a price. Stranger still, is how open Katniss is being. While their relations have certainly warmed over time, this is far beyond Madge’s wildest expectations. But then, perhaps if Gale trusts her, Katniss is willing to trust her as well.

“And I’m sure everyone else agrees, after all, I am doing a terrible job, that is what my mother says. What Haymitch says. What random men in the street say.”

Madge bites her lip and presses her hands to her heart.

“I do not believe that,” she says, her eyes beginning to sting, and Katniss looks away, gaze dropping.

"I have done everything wrong,” she murmurs and Madge stands abrubtly and walks over to Katniss, taking her hands in hers.

“That is not true,” she says firmly and Katniss looks up at her in surprise.

“Isn’t it?” she asks after a moment. “I have infuriated the French, I have infuriated my nobles, the Lancastrians, the peasants and now even my family. I don’t think I could do worse.”

Madge shakes her head.

“It is easy for everyone else to judge a monarch, but you have done what you believed was right.”

“Not always,” Katniss admits, looking down again. “I do not take ladies because I do not want to. I know I should, but I hate the idea of strangers around me every moment of every day, watching me and reporting on my every move to their fathers and brothers and husbands. I just wanted some time where I needn’t act like a queen, where I might be me again. Haymitch told me it was foolish decision, but I wouldn’t listen.”

Madge bites her lip and Katniss continues, her voice growing rougher with every word.

“He said I should honour not just our allies, but those whose loyalty we needed to win, but I didn’t. I was angry at them for my father, so I did not reward them. He told me also that I should side with France, but I was determined to make my own choices. I wanted some determination over my own life, but he was right, he was right. I have destroyed everything we worked for, everything my father fought for.”

“You have had this position forced upon you, but your reasons for siding with Burgundy were sound. And you are not the only person to be lead astray by anger. All is not yet lost and you will rise to this challenge Majesty, I have faith in that,” Madge swears, a thick syrup of tragedy clogging her veins. _Oh Katniss, Katniss, Katniss_.

“I’ve no idea how,” Katniss whispers, eyes closed.

“Then we will figure it out together,” Madge promises and Katniss looks up at her, eyes damp.

“Together?”

Madge nods.

“Together.”

* * *

( _together_ )

(who ever thought a Lancastrian would ever say _together_ to a Yorkist?)

* * *

The discontent in England continues to bubble, fed and encouraged by blood-hungry Lancastrians.

Katniss has her supporters of course and plenty of them, but still, there are a growing number of people all across the kingdom that are angry, upset, afraid. Some yearn for the familiarity of a man on the throne, some are terrified of a foreigner holding power over them, some feel angry and slighted by Katniss and her choices, some seek vengeance, while still others feel she has failed them.

It is just like Madge’s childhood all over again, the ever present threat of rebellion lurking around every corner and for the first time since all this madness began, she prays the Yorkists are spared and this disquiet will soon fade.

Madge is a Lancastrian born and raised, but finally, she can see past revenge and heartbreak. War is devastation for all and she cannot bear to witness England choking on its own blood yet again.

 _Spare us this calamity, preserve us and bless us with peace_ , she prays, _England has suffered enough._

* * *

(and below all of that, underneath the sincere desire to avoid a war, there is something else as well.

There is Gale and Katniss and Peeta and Prim, Darius and Posy and Philippa, Rory, Petronella, Hazelle, and even Haymitch)

(there is her heart and part of it beats white for York)

* * *

Fall grows colder every day and Gale leaves in October for some of his properties.

Madge cannot see him off but she is glad for him to go, even if it means they will be long apart. When he is away, they might at least write to each other, when he is here, they are constantly spied upon, constantly kept apart. She watches him ride off from a window and she hates this, hates that now she knows she loves him, it has become so much harder to be with him.

_Are we cursed?_

_Sometimes I think we are._

_Or maybe England is, all of England_

* * *

October, November, they pass in a gray haze, every person at court on tether hooks.

Madge knows what the country is hurtling towards and she sleeps with Gale’s letters beneath her pillow, hoping they will lend her courage. She is not ready for another war, does not think she will ever be ready.

Annie is clearly nervous too, fingers shaking as they embroider and Madge almost asks her if she wants this, if she hopes it will lead to a Lancastrian restoration, but then she bites her tongue. Their renewed friendship is too fragile for questions like that and it doesn’t matter much anyway. Surely Annie hopes for Lancaster to rise again and Madge cannot really blame her. Her fortunes have sunk low under the Yorkist regime, why would she not want to see Lancaster return to power?

As for Madge, well she is not entirely sure who she wants to reign supreme.

 _I want peace,_ she thinks _, that’s all I want_

* * *

Shortly after Gale returns in late December, word reaches them from Lancashire; the very news Madge has been dreading.

Rebellion.

England is heaving with anger, betrayal and the time has come for Katniss of York to prove herself.

Madge prays she can.

* * *

Nothing so clearly demonstrates England’s mood than London on the day of the Queen’s departure.

Where cheering throngs once gathered, now only grave faces stand, their numbers thin and their expressions bleak. Katniss once came to London as a beloved savior; she leaves it now followed by accusatory eyes ( _you brought this on us_ they say) and silent prayers ( _save us Your Majesty_ they whisper).

The people are weary of war and Madge cannot blame them. Katniss was meant to usher in an era of peace, but she has failed in that. Madge wonders if anyone could really have succeeded and she cannot say. Perhaps Haymitch is right and Katniss and Gale have been foolish and naïve, their decisions condemning the country to more bloodshed and terror. Or perhaps they had no chance at all, with open wounds still festering in so many English hearts. Madge does not know. It matters little in the end, for war is here.

Carnage and mayhem have returned to England.

Madge stands with Peeta and Prim to see off their daring champions, Katniss, Gale and Darius all riding off in splendid armor. Madge has never seen Katniss arrayed as the warrior who won her crown and it is a bit awe inspiring, a bit breath taking. Katniss does not look worn or tired, not fearful or nervous. She seems taller, surer, her shoulders straight. She does not look pleased, far from it, but there is a fierceness to her gaze that Madge cannot help but admire.

If anyone can defeat these rebels, it is Katniss, Madge is sure of that.

Gale looks dashing, but then, doesn’t he always? He is a soldier too, Madge reminds herself, he has fought and won a war already, but still, fear does not leave her. There are too many people about for her to tell him _I love you_ , even for her to bestow a token on him and she hates the dictates of manners, the rules of propriety. She cannot bear the thought of his death and she wants to hold him, to kiss him, to touch him.

Prim sniffles into Darius’ arms, Peeta murmurs quietly into Katniss’ ear and Madge merely stares at Gale and hopes her thoughts find their way to his.

_Be safe, my love_

_Be brave_

He notices her gaze and smiles, the sight aching deep in Madge’s heart. He lifts his gauntleted arm just slightly and she sucks in a breath, a sting of tears in her eyes. There, tucked into his armor, is a handkerchief.

Her handkerchief.

It is her gift to him from last Christmas and she covers her mouth with her hands. She smiles though the tears and she feels somehow relieved, as if he will be safer now, with her token and her love to carry through the fight. Katniss and Darius mount their horses and the great procession of knights sets out, Madge’s thoughts chasing behind them.

_Be careful_

_Be victorious_

_I love you Gale Hawthorne, Earl of Salisbury_

_Come home to me_

* * *

Waiting, of course, is always the hardest part.

London is somber, Peeta attempting as best he can to carry out Katniss’ duties, even as his face shows the same fear Madge can feel in her heart.

_Bring them home to us, please_

(she is not too preoccupied to notice that Peeta’s authority, however benevolent, makes London uneasy)

(even if the rebels in Lancashire are defeated, it is not the end)

(it’s never the end)

* * *

The news that finally reaches them from the front is truly, unbelievably, miraculous.

Word comes that the Queen’s forces met the rebels and a bloody battle ensued, but then, then, from over the hills came another army riding from the north.

An army led by Haymitch, Earl of Warwick and his son Marvel, Earl of Northumberland.

This new army smashed into the rebels’ rear and caught between two Yorkist forces, the enemy army was utterly devastated. Their surrender was complete and unconditional but no one cares much about that. The news that sets fire to England is simple.

The Yorkists are back.

* * *

(Marvel rides back to London as a hero, the fight between his father, Gale and Katniss seemingly forgiven and forgotten. All is mended, all is well and the House of York is back and better than ever)

(it is a secret of course, but Marvel has won, he’s won it all)

(he bided his time, he waited and now he’s won)

* * *

(except there is a storm coming, one greater than any of them could ever have imagined)

* * *

 

London rejoices as its victorious heroes return and it is just like that March nearly two years ago when they cantered in as conquerors. People line the streets regardless of the cold and sleet, cheers rise up to the sky and colourful banners wave as Katniss, Gale and Haymitch ride in together, the House of York finally put back together again. Darius and Marvel come right after them, Marvel waving loftily to the crowd and Madge feels thick, syrupy relief bubble inside of her at the sight of all of them, safe and whole.

The procession winds its way to Westminster where Peeta is waiting on the steps to greet them, his sunshine smile threatening to overtake his entire face. Madge, her mother, Prim and Glimmer wait to his left, while Hazelle and the rest of the Salisbury brood stand to the right, all of them glowing with this happy reunion.

In this moment, at least, England is nothing but bright and joyous.

(if only such fortune would last)

* * *

After many speeches and congratulations, England’s three great champions gather together for drinks, each one handed a large tankard of ale. Madge, her mother and Peeta join them, but do not drink, instead they watch from the edge of the room, each of them relieved at the sight before them.

_The Yorkists are whole once more_

“I am so happy to have you back with us,” Katniss says, a lightness to her voice Madge has never heard. Gale laughs and slings an arm over her shoulder, thrusting his mug up into the air.

“To the House of York, may we never falter again!” he cries, so jubilant it makes Madge’s insides feel warm and fluttery.

“Hear, hear!” Katniss cheers and though Haymitch smiles, it doesn’t seem to quite reach his eyes. The three of them knock their tankards together and Haymitch drinks deeply, indeed, perhaps a little too deeply.

“Are you alright, cousin?” Gale asks, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Weary is all,” Haymitch answers with a smile and Gale laughs.

“It has been a trying few days,” he agrees, before he grins, “but victorious ones! Now that we are together again, nothing and no one shall divide us!”

Katniss cheers again and they clunk their mugs together, each of them draining the remainder of their ale. Haymitch stares morosely into his empty tankard while Katniss flags down a servant and Gale belches loudly. He looks over at Madge in sudden embarrassment and she rolls her eyes.

“More ale,” Katniss says and the server hurries off. Haymitch frowns thoughtfully, his gaze on Madge and she is sure he caught their interaction. He turns to Gale, just as a boy comes with ale to refill their mugs.

“Forgive me Gale, I should not have denied you your request. I would be honoured to consent to your betrothal to Lady Madge,” Haymitch says and Gale’s mouth actually pops open, Madge feeling as if she’s had the rug tugged out from beneath her.

“If you’ll allow it, I will petition the Pope for the dispensation myself,” Haymitch offers and Gale smiles, big and wide and happy. He throws himself on a surprised Haymitch in a hug and squeezes.

“Thank you,” he says, “ _thank you_.”

“Should we not first ask the lady if she is willing?” Katniss teases and Gale beams, practically skipping over to Madge. He takes both her hands in his and leans in, his forehead nearly touching hers.

“So, my love? Will you marry me?”

He sounds so happy, so free of burden and she feels it too, a bright, warm wave of joy washing over her.

“Yes, my good lord, I will,” she tells him and everyone claps and cheers, Gale pressing kisses to the backs of her hands. There are smiles on every face, a hopeful light shining in her heart and _we’re to be married! We’re really going to get married!_

(happy as she is, she misses one very important thing)

(Haymitch does not smile)

* * *

It is entirely inappropriate of course, but if Madge spends the next few days stealing kisses with Gale, well, she thinks they should be forgiven.

“I love you,” he tells her between each press of their lips and “I love you too,” she swears, jubilant in a way she never dreamed she’d be. His arms are strong around her and she melts into his embrace, her entire body aflutter with each touch of his mouth. Her fingers wind through the softness of his hair and she burns where his hands touch her through her dress, something molten starting to flood throughout her body. He opens his mouth and Madge shivers all over as his tongue caresses her lips. Without thought and heedless of how brazen an action it is, her own mouth parts and within a moment, she is drowning.

However delightful his kisses had been, they are nothing to this kiss, nothing at all. Passion thrums inside of her and this kiss is deeper, more intense than any fantasy she ever could have had. She clings to him, draws him as near as she can and every touch of his tongue makes her feel intoxicated, a rush of heat spilling through her. Her back somehow ends up against the wall and his body is solid as it presses against hers, a delicious sizzling happening at every point of contact.

He breaks their kiss and she is dizzy, breathless, but he is not done, trailing hot kisses across her jaw, down her neck and she sighs, sinking into him. He pulls back abruptly, his breathing ragged and she tugs on his shoulders, her yearning for him still bright within her.

“What is it?” she pants, body still humming.

“You are impossible to resist, but we can’t, not here, not like this,” he mumbles, voice strained.

“Never stopped you before,” she says as she leans up for another kiss, her brain fogged with passion. He tenses.

“What?”

Madge opens her eyes and the fog inside her starts to dissipate. _Oh no, oh no, why did you say that? Idiot!_

“Madge,” he says and she swallows.

“You are right of course, I should guard my virtue more carefully,” she laughs but he does not smile.

“Madge,” he repeats and she ducks her head in embarrassment.

“December, last December, I may have…heard you with a girl. In a hallway. And you did not seem to be doing much resisting then.”

The silence between them is deafening, horrid and she wants to slap herself. _Why must I ruin everything? Why, why, why?_

“Oh,” Gale finally says and Madge feels as if something great and heavy has been dropped on her head. _Idiot, idiot, idiot!_

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes and she blinks in confusion before looking up at him.

“Sorry?” she echoes and he nods, not quite meeting her eyes.

“I am sorry you had to hear that and…” a sudden look of horror crosses his face. “You don’t think I still do that, do you?”

Madge feels her face turn red.

“Oh, I uh, I haven’t really given it much thought.”

(liar)

Gale grabs both her hands, his expression urgent.

“I don’t, I haven’t since then. That time with Leevy was the last time,” he swears and Madge feels her mouth open.

“Leevy? The Queen’s maid Leevy?” she asks and Gale’s eyes go very wide.

“Uhhh…yes,” he admits with palpable embarrassment and she nods.

“Oh. Oh.”

She does not know exactly how to process this. She sees Leevy every day, how had she not put the pieces together? And how will she ever face her again, knowing now? Poor Leevy would be so mortified if she knew Madge had heard her, _faster Gale faster_.

  _oh no, oh no, this is awful._

“I swear Madge, I’ve not even thought of anyone but you since then,” he insists and she focuses back on him, “I hadn’t admitted it to myself, but as soon as I did, there’s been no one else. There won’t be, not as long as I live. You’re the only woman I want, forever. I promise.”

He kisses her palm and Madge feels swept away by his declaration, silly tears burning in her eyes.

“I know,” she reassures him and he smiles, sweet and relieved, “there’s no one else but you for me too.”

He runs a thumb over her cheek to catch a stray tear and then leans forward to kiss her. He thinks better of it and kisses her forehead instead.

“Good, I’d hate for to you think I’d ever-”

She shakes her head and cups his face in her hands.

“I know you wouldn’t. My Gale would never.”

He beams and pulls her close.

“Your Gale, always.”

She nods, nestling into his chest.

_always_

* * *

The rebellion has passed, the Yorkists have healed their rift but still, England is not at peace.

Madge wants to be happy, she truly does, but there is still discontent in the streets and towns and fields of England, a dark whisper of danger to come.

She remembers being small and listening at her parents’ door as they talked of that first rebellion and how it was only just the beginning. Madge tries to tell herself that history is not repeating but it is.

Deep down, she knows it is.

* * *

She is right.

Near the end of February, 1470 they get word of another rebellion, this one boiling up near Wales. There is a great wave of preparation, summons sent out, armor polished and swords sharpened. Haymitch looks grave, Marvel restive and Madge feels an icy knife sticking in her gut. The army that has risen is said to be large and angry, braying for blood and Madge can think only of her father, slaughtered on the battlefield with so many others. _What if Gale follows him?_

Haymitch decides that it would be safer to move them as far east as he can, so she and her mother are to be sent to her mother’s castle of Rochester in Kent. The heavily pregnant Glimmer will accompany them, the three of them left behind to wait and pray and worry behind its thick walls. Gale holds her hand and says “I’ll come with you”. He kisses her cheek and she knows he only means he’ll ride with her to Rochester before he goes off to war, but she wishes wishes wishes she could keep him, lock him up somewhere safe where there is no bloodshed or death.

They pack up their things and go, leaving behind Westminster and its hectic activity. Katniss strides about in her armor giving commands, a warrior born and bred, and she looks magnificent truly, like something someone should write a ballad about. Peeta’s worried eyes follow her around and then Westminster is behind them, soon London too, nothing but the snow strewn countryside before them. They move swiftly and Madge can feel the fear here, feel it rising up from the earth.

_The people are terrified_

_(they should be)_

They reach Kent and Madge knows that means goodbye is almost upon them and she hates this, hates that once again England has been cursed into warfare. _Why can we not have peace?_

Dinner is solemn and she sleeps fitfully, plagued by dreams of a thousand horrors. When the light of dawn shines through her window dread wells up inside her, because she knows what morning means.

_Time to say goodbye._

* * *

Madge looks out at all the men readying for war and feels her heart squeeze.

_Just like last time…_

She shakes her head and walks over to Gale with a smile as he fixes his saddle, will not ruin their goodbye with tears and worry.

“Sir Gale,” she says with a curtsy, “I have something for you, if you would allow it.”

He turns and smiles, her chest suddenly warm. He takes her hands and pulls her up and for a moment they just look at each other, the fear she’s been fighting since they heard of this rebellion starting to rise again, like poison in her blood. _What if he ends up like Father?_

Madge closes her eyes for a moment and forces the thought away. _Don’t think like that, don’t._ She ties a ribbon around his gauntlet.

“A lady’s favour to keep you safe,” she says and he grins.

“I shall wear it proudly.”

She smiles as best she can and he digs about in his saddlebag, a light in his eyes. He pulls out a locket on a silver chain and drapes it around her neck.

"Here," he says, "to remind you of me."

Madge laughs. "As if I could ever forget."

She takes it in her palm and holds it up to see. It is a simple locket in silver but it is the intertwined _M_ and _H_ etched on the front that catch her attention.

"A promise of things to come," he whispers and her heart thumps in her chest. She looks back up at him and he takes her hands in his, her fingers curling reflexively over his. They spend a moment just staring and oh, how she wishes this moment could last forever.

 “I’ll wear it always,” she promises and Gale grins before kissing her knuckles.

"I _will_ return to you, Madge," he swears, voice sincere and she nods, her heart squeezing tight. "You have my word of honour."

"And I shall hold you to it," she replies, voice weak, smile tremulous. His smile is stronger, warmer and he squeezes her hands.

"And when I return, we shall marry."

"I shall _definitely_ hold you to that."

"I'm counting on it,” he says with her favourite grin and then, heedless of the crowd around them and the impropriety of such an action, he kisses her. Madge sinks into his mouth, feels his warmth in her bones and _this isn’t goodbye, not forever_. He breathes her in for a moment, their foreheads pressed together and hands clasped and then he pulls away, the air around her suddenly colder. He mounts his horse, gleaming bright and silver in the sunlight and she watches him ride away with fear in her heart.

_Don’t think of Father, don’t. It won’t end like that this time, it won’t._

_(it can’t)_

* * *

 

Madge waits for a little over a week, her nerves ravaged.

February turns to March and she hopes every day for news, but when it comes, she isn’t ready.

Not at all.

* * *

“Wake up Madge, wake up!”

Annie shakes her roughly and Madge startles into consciousness, the sun barely risen outside.

“Hurry,” Annie implores, real fear in her voice, and Madge sits up in alarm.

“What? What is it?” she asks in confusion and Annie is already moving about the room, pulling out Madge’s best travelling gown and cloak.

“It’s Haymitch, he’s back,” Annie starts and for a moment Madge is simply relieved. _If Haymitch is back, that means we won, doesn’t it?_

“He says we have to leave now, take only what’s most necessary. He says they’re coming for us,” Annie continues and Madge feels her heart plummet.

“Who’s coming?” she asks and Annie shakes her head.

“I don’t know, but I’ve never seen him so panicked. We must go, we must hurry,” she almost sobs, a very real terror in her voice. _She was there when the Yorkists raided her home; I suppose she knows what horrors to expect._

Madge feels her heart thumping as she climbs out of bed and pulls off her nightgown. Annie hurriedly laces her into her dress and they pack as quickly as they can, shouted voices floating up from the courtyard and drifting in through her window. Annie stuffs as much clothes as she can into the chest at the foot of Madge’s bed and Madge grabs all of her jewels, just in case they ever need to pawn them. She snatches up her heraldry book from Gale and the embroidery frame she made for her father that always hangs above her bed and then they’re off, Annie waylaying a terrified page to help carry down her trunk. The whole of Rochester is in frenzy, shouting and running in every direction, their fear thick and palpable. This is just like when they abandoned Bedford, except worse, because the threat is so much closer now, the danger so much more immediate.

“I don’t understand, why can’t this wait? It’s barely morning,” Glimmer whines as Annie and Madge rush into the courtyard.

“We have no time for this Glimmer,” Marvel snaps in irritation and actually lifts her up and loads her into a litter, “get in!”

Glimmer opens her mouth to protest but gets no chance, Marvel dragging over his stepmother and shoving her in as well. He turns, hair blown wild by the furious ride he must have undertaken to get here, and notices Madge.

“What’s taken you so long?” he roars and lurches over. He grabs her chest and practically throws it into a baggage cart.

“Get on a horse!” he shouts and clambers onto his own, wild eyed, and Madge feels her fear intensify. She looks around and finds Haymitch barking orders in every direction. She grabs Annie’s hand and pulls her over, desperate for answers. Gale’s locket burns through her dress and _please be alright, please please be alright_.

“We have no time, forget it! Forget it!” Haymitch shouts at someone and then he sees Madge. “What are you doing, get on a horse!” he orders and then his gaze slides over to Annie.

“We cannot bring maids with us,” he says but then frowns, thoughtful lines cutting into his forehead. Madge waits, her heart beating in her throat and then “Robert, take her!” he suddenly bellows and a frightened squire does just that, pulling Annie up onto his horse. Madge grabs his arm.

 “Are the rebels coming?” she asks and Haymitch suddenly laughs, a short, bitter sound that chills her to the bone.

“No, Madge. We’re the rebels.”

_end of part one_


	7. a lullaby from the sea part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> theirs is a story of goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This was supposed to be only one chapter, but it definitely got away from me so I split it up. The second half should be up in a few days, I'm just finishing it up. This is an interlude (so technically not part of the main story), but I really think it's important for what's to come. I've been really excited to write it and as soon as it's done, we're off to part 2: the thorns of Lancaster, so I hope you enjoy!

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_interlude_  
_a lullaby from the sea_  
_part one of two_  
_fairy hearts_

 _1470_  
_March_

Annie clutches tightly to Robert the squire as they make their desperate flight from Rochester, Haymitch’s words ringing in her ears.

_We’re the rebels_

Her heart thuds heavily in her chest, worry clashing with hope.

_What does that mean? Could it...could it be...Finnick, are you finally coming home?_

* * *

  _1455_

Annie is almost four when they meet for the very first time.

A lazy June is fading into a rainy July when a letter arrives from the Earl of Pembroke asking if he may avail himself of their hospitality. He is passing by her father’s Great Canfield Castle on his way home from somewhere up north and her parents leap into action, cleaning and cooking and preparing. The whole castle buzzes with activity and Anne isn’t entirely sure why they’re so excited; they never are when Uncle George and his great gaggle of children come to visit (not that Anne is either, her cousins are very annoying). Still, she can’t help being a little eager too; after all, the only people she’s ever met are relatives or servants.

The long awaited (or at least it feels long to Anne) Earl arrives on a Tuesday and her governess Mags laces her into her best dress, the blue one with the pretty bird pattern, and then ties ribbons in her hair.

“Don’t you look lovely,” she says fondly and Anne preens. She feels lovely and she skips down to the entrance hall, her poppet Lizbet held snugly in her arms. _I wonder what this earl is like...I hope he’s nice._ Her parents are already there, her daddy pacing about in dark velvet and her mummy running her hands over her round tummy (apparently there’s a baby in there, not that anyone will explain to Anne how it got there).

“Their rooms are ready?” her daddy demands and Mummy purses her lips.

“Yes, my lord.”

“The cook is prepared?”

“Of course.”

“Everything must be perfect Mary,” he says sternly and Mummy’s eyes narrow.

“I know John,” she replies, tone annoyed, and they glare at each other. Anne squeezes Lizbet and though she doesn’t understand it, she certainly feels the tension in the air around them. It’s not an unfamiliar tension, her parents rarely seeing eye to eye, but thankfully their guest comes cantering through the gates and her parents transform into the perfect hosts, all smiles and good cheer.

(maybe they should have guests more often)

The Earl of Pembroke rides in on his horse, looking just like a great Earl should Anne decides, but he is not alone. Just behind him comes a boy perhaps a year or two older than Anne, his hair shining bronze in the sunlight. She stays focused on him as the Earl dismounts, her curiosity piqued. The only children she’s ever met are her cousins and this boy, whoever he is, is immediately interesting for not being related to her. The Earl shakes her daddy’s hand and then kisses her mummy’s, while a groom helps lift the boy down from his horse.

“Welcome to Great Canfield, Lord Boggs. It is an honour to have you here,” her daddy says and Boggs smiles warmly.

“It is my honour Lord Oxford. It has been a long ride and we appreciate the chance to rest.”

He gestures then for that boy to come forward and he does, Boggs dropping a hand to his shoulder.

“And my nephew, Finnick,” he introduces and Anne runs his name over in her mind. _Finnick_.

“Ah yes, and this is our daughter, Anne,” her daddy says and pulls her forward. She hugs Lizbet close and looks at this Finnick, with his chubby cheeks and green green eyes.

_I wonder if I’ll like him..._

* * *

 Her parents and Boggs go off to do grown-up things, leaving Anne and Finnick to Mags’ care.

Anne feels shy, too shy to say anything, so she hides her lower face behind Lizbet and stares at him with big eyes. He’s only a tiny bit taller than she is with a round face, tanned skin and coppery hair that curls around his ears. That hair’s a bit messy from the ride, his nose is reddened by the sun and the only thing he seems to have in common with his uncle is his pretty pretty green eyes. Boggs is taller (but then, he is much older), has no hair and his skin is a dark brown, but his eyes are just like Finnick’s and Anne wishes she knew more words so she could describe that special shade of green. He turns to look her over and she feels her face heat up, an embarrassing wave of bashfulness washing over her. He looks at her a little warily, as if she might bite, and Anne cannot help but wonder if he’s met many girls that do.

“The king is my uncle,” he says suddenly and Anne’s eyes go wide. She’s never met the king, but she’s heard her parents talking about him before and she’s understood enough to know that it’s impressive for Finnick to be related to him.

“My uncle’s a knight,” she offers, mumbling into Lizbet’s hair, and Finnick leans in with a frown.

“Huh?” he asks and Anne ducks her head, her skin burning. He continues to look at her and she shakes her head, too nervous to say anything else. Thankfully, he accepts this.

“My cousin Cato’s going to be king someday too,” he says, though he doesn’t sound very excited about it. Anne just continues to stare at him, her tongue useless in her mouth.

“Oh no,” Mags sighs, “I’ve broken my needle, I’ll have to get a new one. I’ll be right back.”

They watch her leave and as soon as she’s out the door, Finnick turns to Anne.

“Can we go outside?” he asks and Anne frowns. _Mags never said we couldn’t..._

She nods.

“Lizbet think so,” she murmurs and he grins.

“Great, let’s go!”

He heads straight outside and Anne trails after him, Lizbet hugged in her arms. The ground’s still muddy from last night’s rainfall and Finnick stops just outside the doors, peering around with his hands on his hips. Anne almost asks him what he’s looking for, after all, this is her daddy’s castle and she knows it fairly well, but the words get swallowed up in her throat. She’d been so excited to meet this new boy but now that he’s here, she’s never felt more timid.

 “Aha!” Finnick says, perking up suddenly. He hurries forward and Anne struggles to keep up, her shorter legs and long skirts slowing her down. She stumbles over the sloppy, uneven ground but Finnick just charges ahead, leaving her behind just the way Cousin Georgie does.

Anne is not impressed.

Her boot sinks suddenly into a squelchy, wet puddle and she squeaks as her foot disappears into the muck. She tries to pull it out but can’t, frustrated, angry tears starting to burn in her eyes. She stomps the foot not trapped in goop and Finnick actually stops rather than running off without her. He turns but he doesn’t laugh or even say something snotty like Cousin John would (that’s the problem with being the baby of the family (except for Ursula, but no one plays with Ursula, she’s only two), everyone is always older and never very fun). He winces, his green eyes filled with distress.

 “Oh no,” he says and hurries back to help. Anne looks at him in bewilderment as he takes her hand (and it might’ve been easier if he’d held both, but it’s not as if she could put Lizbet down) and pulls, her leg leaving the guck with an awful suctiony noise.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I shouldn’t have gone so fast.”

Anne just stares at him.

“Anne?” he asks anxiously, as if afraid she might be cross and she shakes her head.

“Lizbet doesn’t think it was your fault,” she says (even though Anne herself kind of does, but then, Lizbet’s always had the better manners) and he blinks, looking down at Lizbet in her arms.

“Oh,” and then he smiles, “thanks Lizbet.”

Anne bites her lip but wants to smile too, and Finnick doesn’t run off this time, he stays right by her side. He leads her all the way to the river and then peers down into it with a grin, his whole face glowing. The sunlight flittering through the clouds makes the water glitter and Anne looks down at their reflections, the light breeze making their faces ripple. She feels a little breathless as the river slides by, something magical about it that she can’t quite put her finger on. Finnick sits down on the wet grass and yanks off his boots, fumbles with his belt and then tugs off his hose, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Anne watches him in confusion and he looks up at her with sparkly eyes.

“Do you wanna put your feet in?” he asks, “I do it all the time back home.”

Anne blinks a few times and then nods shyly. She sits beside him, the damp soaking through her skirts and she pulls them up over her knees. She frowns at her boots and it takes both her and Finnick to figure out how to unlace them. As soon as they free her feet she plunges them into the water, gasping a bit at the cold. Finnick follows suit and smiles at her.

“Can you swim?” he asks and she shakes her head, feeling silly.

“I love swimming, I could teach you,” he offers and Anne feels something happy bloom in her chest.

“Lizbet would like that,” she whispers and he nods, looking up at the sky.

“Okay, but maybe when it’s warmer. Hey, doesn’t that look like a rabbit?”

Anne follows his eyes and stares up at the clouds.

“Lizbet thinks so.”

“Good, cause rabbits are lucky,” he says and then he looks off to his left and gasps. Anne looks too and there is a great big rock, gray and mossy. Finnick stands and rushes over to it, his boots and hose forgotten. He immediately clambers on top and Anne watches with wide eyes as he scrambles up and stands, wobbling slightly, before nodding.

“I can see France from here,” he declares and Anne’s mouth drops open.

“Really?”

He nods and then looks over at her.

“Would Lizbet like a look?” he asks and Anne’s heart thunks. She nods and stands, walking slowly over to him. Her bare feet sink into the mud and she tentatively hands Lizbet over. Finnick puts her on his shoulder and then holds her legs so she doesn’t fall off.

“See, right over there,” he points and Anne follows his finger but can’t see France, though maybe it’s because she’s on the ground. Finnick peeks down at her.

“Do you wanna come up?” he asks and Anne bites her lip before nodding slowly.

“Okay,” he says, “but remember, I’m almost six, so you might not see it.”

Anne nods because that seems sensible and then he takes her by the elbow. He helps haul her up and her bare feet scrabble on the rock, trying to climb up.

“Anne Cresta! What are you doing? Get down!”

Finnick’s face goes pale at Mags’ shout and Anne slides down into the muck. She turns and Mags is running towards them, her face very red. Finnick slips off the boulder to land beside her, Lizbet squeezed in his hands.

“What were you two thinking? I go off for five minutes...oh, look at you,” Mags says with a sigh and Anne looks down. There is mud all over her dress and she can feel it squishing between her toes. Mags shakes her head.

“And you,” she says to Finnick, dirty legged and in his breeches. She sighs again.

“Alright, let’s go and get you cleaned up before your lady mother sees you,” she says and takes Anne’s hand. She gathers up their discarded clothes and Finnick follows slowly behind, his head bowed. They go up to the nursery and Mags sits Anne down on a bench, her arms full of gucky boots and Finnick’s hose.

“Stay here,” she tells them sternly as she goes to fetch clean things and Anne looks over at Finnick. He’s biting his lip, eyes on the floor and Anne frowns.

“Finnick?” she asks and he flinches.

“Sorry,” he whispers and she looks at him in confusion.

“Why?”

“Cause I got you in trouble. I don’t want you to be in trouble.”

Anne shrugs.

“Lizbet doesn’t mind,” she says and he looks up at her in surprise.

“Really?”

Anne nods.

“Yes, she had fun.”

Finnick grins and Anne’s tummy feels warm.

“Me too,” he says and Anne smiles back at him. He sits beside her, Lizbet in his lap and right then and there, Anne decides she is very, very happy he came to visit.

(he’s much better company than her cousins)

* * *

 After dinner they play cards, Mags watching them much, much more intently.

She’s meant to be stitching but all she does is stare at them instead, as if expecting trouble. Mags has always told her staring was rude, but Anne decides not to mention it, since Mags was nice enough not to tell Mummy or Daddy about their fun in the mud. They don’t get up to any trouble but since she’s never actually played cards before, it falls on Finnick to teach her. He is very excited to show her something new, his eyes bright and sparkly and he is very patient every time she forgets a rule (which is more often than she’d like to admit). He even deals a hand to Lizbet, though she’s not very good at all. Anne looks down at her cards and then at Finnick, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Lizbet is glad you’re teaching us,” she says, “your lessons are much more fun than Mags’.”

He grins.

“Yeah? I hate lessons; they’re so boring. I don’t think my tutor Master Sprindrel likes me very much.”

Anne frowns but Finnick just shrugs.

“I don’t like him much either, he’s very stuffy.”

“Lizbet likes Mags,” she says, “though her lessons aren’t always very fun.”

“Lessons never are,” Finnick sighs and Anne nods, “but Uncle Boggs says I have to do them.”

Thinking of his uncle, a sudden thought occurs to her.

“Where’s your mummy and daddy?” she asks and he blinks at her, before looking back down at his cards.

“My father’s with God,” he says and Anne nods. She’s never sure what that means, though her parents have said the same thing about her grandparents. All she does know is that people with God never seem to come back.

“I never met him,” Finnick continues but then lights up.

“He was locked up in a dungeon before he left for heaven,” he says and Anne gasps.

“Wow,” she breathes. “Why?”

He shrugs.

“I dunno, but it must’ve been for trying to fight some great evil or something. Uncle Boggs always tells me he was a hero.”

“That’s...Lizbet thinks that’s amazing,” she tells him and he grins. She furrows her brow.

“What about your mummy?”

He frowns.

“She lives with her new husband, Plu-tarch Hea-vens-bee,” he says slowly, separating each syllable.

“I thought only mummies and daddies were husband and wife,” she says in confusion and he shrugs.

“I guess not,” he says and another question occurs to her.

“But why aren’t they here?”

“Why would they be?”

“Don’t you live with them?”

He shakes his head.

“I live with Uncle Boggs.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, the King thought it’d be better like this. I’m glad though, Plu-tarch’s got this nephew, Darius, and he always follows me around. It’s annoying.”

Anne nods and how odd, not to live with your mummy or daddy.

“It’s your turn,” he says and she looks back down at her cards. All her other questions start to disappear, all her focus swallowed up by the game.

(and perhaps that’s the best part of being young, it is so easy to forget all your concerns)

* * *

 

The next morning it’s already time for them to leave and Anne cannot help but pout.

It’s been fun having someone other than Lizbet to play with and she doesn’t want to say goodbye. She watches sullenly as they load up their things, Lizbet clutched tight against her chest. Her parents and Boggs talk to each and Finnick wanders over to her, not looking nearly as upset as she feels.

“I guess this is goodbye,” he says and she nods, squeezing Lizbet.

“I had fun, thanks!” he continues brightly and a little bit of her bad temper vanishes.

“Lizbet too,” she murmurs and he grins. A groom comes to lift him up onto his horse and he waves, his smile wide.

“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” he says and she nods, lifting up Lizbet and making her little hand wave. He rides off and _I hope so_ , she thinks, _I really, really hope so_.

* * *

_1468  
March_

Finnick had always known that exile was a possibility.

He’d never said it aloud of course, his uncle would’ve had his head, but defeat was always an option. Someone had to lose and that could be either side, he’d acknowledged that. He didn’t know if the Yorkists had any intention of offering pardons, but it didn’t really matter where he was concerned. He was the king’s nephew, damned by his own blood and there would be no pardon offered to him, no forgiveness. This war could only end one of three ways for him.

Victory, death or exile.

Well now it’s over and he rides as hard as he’s ever ridden, trying to outrun death itself.

Exile it is.

(and there’s a moment when he thunders across England that he thinks of all he’s leaving behind and almost turns right around)

( _this isn’t the end_ )

( _I’ll be back, I swear_ )

* * *

_1457_

Finnick is a few months shy of eight when they see each other again.

“How would you feel about company this summer?” Uncle Boggs asks one night over dinner and Finnick perks up immediately. And then wilts.

“Cousin Cato?” he asks, unable to cover his pout, and Uncle Boggs laughs.

“No, not cousin Cato. Do you remember the Earl of Oxford?”

Finnick shakes his head.

“We visited him in Essex two years ago. He has a daughter about your age, Anne, I think.”

Finnick’s eyes go wide and he does remember her, of course he does.

“And Lizbet!” he says, remembering her very favourite poppet too. Uncle Boggs frowns.

“No, he only has the one daughter.”

Finnick shakes his head.

“Lizbet’s her poppet,” he corrects and Uncle Boggs look at him strangely.

“Right. Well, I mentioned to the Earl that we’d be spending the summer at Hadleigh and since his Hedingham Castle is so close, he thought he might bring his family for a visit. What do you think?”

Finnick nods eagerly. He loves company (as long as it isn’t Cousin Cato) and Anne was nice he remembers.

“Wonderful,” Uncle Boggs says, “I’ll let Earl John know right away.”

* * *

It is June when they all meet up at Hadleigh and Finnick bounces up and down as the Oxford family rolls through the gates with a great train of horses and baggage carts and a fancy looking litter. A man that must be Earl John swings off his horse and Uncle Boggs goes over to shake his hand. Finnick ignores them as they talk, much too busy trying to find Anne. A servant opens the litter’s door and helps down a lady that must be Anne’s mother, her hair covered up by one of those silly hats ladies are always wearing. Uncle Boggs bows and kisses her hand.

“Lady Mary, welcome,” he says and then finally Anne comes out of the litter. She looks just like Finnick remembers her, dark haired and big eyed and clutching little Lizbet in her arms. He hurries over while she peers about in wonder, her arms tightening on Lizbet.

“Hello!” he says excitedly and she looks at him, her whole face lighting up.

“Finnick! Lizbet missed you,” she says and he grins. He thinks of Uncle Boggs and Lady Mary and wanting to look grown up, he takes Anne’s hand and kisses it. He’s not really sure what the point of it is, but he feels very gentlemanly. Not wanting Lizbet to feel left out, he kisses her tiny hand too. He looks back at Anne and she beams, her cheeks a pretty pink.

“Lizbet’s very happy to be here,” she says and he smiles.

“Me too,” he says and then Uncle Boggs leads everyone inside, Lady Mary holding onto his arm. Finnick watches them go and bites his lip. He looks at Anne, looks back at Uncle Boggs and Lady Mary and then nods. He puts his arm out in front of Anne but she doesn’t take it. She merely blinks at it and then at him, clearly confused. Finnick feels his face go hot and he gestures at Uncle Boggs and her mother with his head.

“Oh!” Anne says, eyes wide, and then she takes hold of his arm. He pulls her after the grown-ups, feeling quite grown-up himself. They go up to the rooms the Oxfords will be staying in and when Anne goes to unpack, Finnick knows he was right.

It’s only been a few minutes, but she’s already much better company than Cato.

(not, to be fair, that that’s very hard)

* * *

He tries to teach Anne a new card game after supper and her kindly-faced nurse is supposed to be watching them, but most of her attention is taken by some little baby that toddles about and babbles nonsense.

“Who’s he?” Finnick asks and Anne turns to look.

“Oh, that’s Aubby,” she says and he frowns.

“Aubby?”

Anne goes pink.

“Aubrey. It’s just Mags told-” she pauses for a moment and swallows, “ _me_ once that when people like each other they sometimes make up nicknames, so I’ve started calling him Aubby. He’s my brother. He’s not very fun, though he’s better than he used to be. He talks sometimes and he can move and play some easy stuff, he used to do nothing but sleep. And cry.”

She talks very fast and Finnick nods, thinking this over. She peeks at him through her lashes and it’s the very first time she’s ever said “me”. He thinks for a minute more and then, “Can I call you Annie?”

Anne’s already big eyes go even bigger.

“Annie?”

“I like you,” he says, “so Annie can be your nickname.”

She goes pinker than pink, like that perfect rosy colour at sunset, and nods, biting her lip. She shuffles her cards together until she drops them suddenly, clapping her hands.

 “Ooo, you can be Finny!” she exclaims and if she’s giving him a nickname, that means she must like him too. He nods, a fuzzy feeling in his chest, and then, because he’s seen Uncle Boggs do this every time he makes some sort of deal, he takes Annie’s hand and shakes it.

“Annie,” he affirms and she nods.

“Finny,” she agrees.

They smile at each other, hands still joined and just like that, they’re friends.

* * *

He hasn’t been to Hadleigh since he was very small, so he, Annie and Lizbet go exploring.

(of course, they can’t go anywhere too exciting, Mags always following behind them so they stay out of trouble)

They wind through hallways and peek in every room, store rooms and bed rooms and rooms Finny could never guess the purpose of. They find a dusty room full of old costumes for Twelfth Night celebrations and they try them all on, funny hats and glitzy masks and pretty wings that sparkle.

“You look like a fairy princess,” he tells Annie as she spins around in glittery wings and a tiara made of beads. Her whole face lights up and she smiles brightly, putting the sun outside the window to shame. She drops into a curtsy just like a real lady (except maybe a bit more wobbly) and he takes off his oversized hat to bow, holding it up against his heart. She giggles and he grins, putting the floppy hat back on his head. It might be a farmer’s hat, the brim wide and limp.

“Here,” Annie offers, holding out a prop of a farmer’s tool, “it’ll go good with your great hat.”

Finny takes it with a beam. They head off again, still dressed up, and Mags’ eyebrows go straight up when she sees them.

“And what’s all this?” she asks, gesturing at their outfits.

“I’m a fairy princess,” Annie says happily, hugging Lizbet tight, and Mags smiles warmly.

“And a beautiful one too,” she says and Annie’s cheeks turn pink with pleasure. Finny thrusts out his tool.

“I’m a farmer,” he says and Mags grins, bouncing Aubby on her hip.

“Oh, are you? Well, shouldn’t you be ploughing a field then?”

Finny nods and turns to Annie.

“Come on Annie, let’s go plough!”

They hurry off outside, Mags laughing softly after them. Of course, as soon as they get there they both realize they have absolutely no idea how to plough.

“We could roll down the hill,” he offers instead and Annie nods. They race up to the top, Finny tripping over his stupid farmer’s tool and falling face first into the grass. He is more embarrassed than hurt and Annie kneels down beside him, her face all painted over with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks and he nods quickly, not quite able to meet her eyes.

“Fine,” he mumbles and she touches his arm lightly. He turns and she holds out Lizbet.

“Here, Lizbet always makes me feel better.”

Finny looks at her and she smiles, soft, sweet and in all his years going to court, he’s never met anyone quite like Annie.

“Thanks,” he says, taking Lizbet and he does feel better. Annie stands and holds out her hand. Finny takes it and she pulls him up, his smile blooming to match hers. They run up the rest of the hill together and then roll down it, their laughter rising up to the sky. They go again and again, grass in their hair and leaving stains on their clothes. They pick flowers because Lizbet loves bouquets and Annie teaches him to tie them together, making a necklace for her and crown for him.

 “Lizbet thinks it’s very pretty here. Your Uncle’s very lucky,” Annie says with a smile, her eyes sparkly.

Finny frowns.

“This isn’t my uncle’s castle, it’s mine.”

Annie stares at him.

“Yours?”

He nods and puffs out his chest.

“Yup, I’m the Earl of Richmond,” he boasts and Annie’s eyebrows draw together.

“I thought only daddies could be earls,” she says and Finny shakes his head.

“Nope.”

“Huh. Mummy says if I’m really good and act like a lady, I’ll be a countess someday.”

Finny ponders this and Annie pulls up grass with her fingers, her skin starting to turn green.

“Do you want to be my countess?” he asks and Annie looks up at him.

“Really?”

He nods.

“Yeah, I like you best of all the girls I know, so better you than them.”

Annie presses her dirty hands to her cheeks.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Glimmer Mowbray’s mean, she stole my tart.”

Annie gasps in outrage.

“How rude! Why would she do that?”

“Cause my cousin Cato told her to.”

“Why?”

“Cause he’s mean.”

Annie shakes her head.

“I’d never steal your tarts, no matter who told me to,” she promises and he nods.

“I know, that’s why I’d pick you over her. Or Clove Clifford, she’s also mean. And everyone else is too old or too young.”

Annie thinks about this for a moment and then nods.

“Okay, I’ll be your countess Earl Finny.”

He smiles and then, because it seems like something an Earl should do for his Countess, he reaches over and brushes the dirt from her cheeks. Annie’s eyes go wide but then she straightens his doublet for him, smoothing down the arms with her fingers. They smile at each other until Mags comes over to lead them back inside and Finny stands and offers Annie his hand, pulling her and Lizbet up to their feet.

He doesn’t let go until much, much later.

* * *

June goes by much too quick but then it’s July and Earl John decides to head home.

Finny doesn’t mind his leaving, but he is upset that he’s taking Annie with him. He kicks at the dirt while they pack up, Earl John and Uncle Boggs guffawing together by Annie’s litter. She and her mother come outside and as much as he hates it, that means it’s time for goodbye. Finny tries to be a grown-up and keep the pout from his face, but it isn’t easy. Annie looks as downtrodden as he feels and Lady Mary curtseys to his Uncle.

“Thank you so much for having us, Lord Boggs,” she says and he kisses her hand.

“It was a pleasure; you are all welcome any time,” he replies and then helps her up into her litter. Mags and Aubby go in next and Finny turns to Annie, his whole body feeling heavy.

“Goodbye Earl Finny, we’ll miss you,” she says, holding Lizbet’s arm and making it wave. He takes that tiny hand and kisses it like a real lord’s supposed to and then takes Annie’s bigger, warmer hand and kisses it too.

“I’ll miss you too Countess Annie, Lizbet.”

Uncle Boggs comes over and drops a hand on his shoulder.

“Countess Annie?” he questions and Finny nods.

“Yes, Annie’s my countess,” he explains and Uncle Boggs starts to laugh, Earl John joining in. Lady Mary doesn’t laugh; her face goes sour instead and she gives him the same look his mother always gives him when he does something she doesn’t like. Finny frowns and wishes he knew what was so funny, but he doubts they’d tell him. Grownups never do. Annie climbs up into the litter with her mother and she holds Lizbet up to the window. Finny watches her leave and he’s almost eight years old, an earl and he definitely doesn’t want to cry.

Definitely not.

* * *

At the end of November, her daddy has a very exciting announcement.

“We’re going to London for the festivities this year,” he announces as they break their fast and Annie drops her apple slices.

“To see the king?” she asks in awe and Daddy nods, patting her on the head.

“Indeed. We weren’t able while your mother was with child nor when Aubrey was so young, but I think it’s time.”

Annie nods and licks apple juices from her fingers, her mummy watching her with a frown.

“Stop that Anne,” she says sternly and Annie does, her cheeks turning red. Mummy dips her head at her husband.

“An excellent idea, my lord. When do we depart?”

Annie rubs her fingers on the tablecloth while no one’s watching and her daddy thinks.

“A week or two I think. I trust you to have everything ready,” he all but commands and his wife dips her head again.

“Of course, my lord.”

Annie watches them and thinks she and Finny have much more fun being Earl and Countess than her parents do.

_I wonder if he’ll be at court._

* * *

They leave early in December and Annie bundles Lizbet up against the biting cold, wrapping her in thick scarves and a little shawl Mags made her for last New Year’s. There’s a thin white sheet of snow over everywhere, a chilly wind nipping at her nose and Annie bundles up to, Mags dressing her in a thick, wooly cloak and a pair of dark gloves. There’s a hood to pull up over her head and then she climbs up into the litter, Mags making sure to tuck a cozy blanket around her. Her mummy sits across from her and Mags beside her with Aubby in her lap, fire warmed bricks placed beneath their feet to try and fight the cold.

Annie is almost too excited to manage, her heart pounding with thrills. She’s never been as far as London, nor has she ever been anywhere as wonderful as a royal palace. This is the greatest adventure she’s ever had but Aubby seems determined to ruin it, his pudgy face screwed up into a pout. He starts to cry only moments after they leave, his fists flying as he shouts. Mummy pinches her nose and “no, no, no!” Aubby wails. Mags coos in his ear, strokes his back and Annie frowns, his voice very shrill. Her happiness starts to evaporate, ground down by his shrieking and _why, why, why are brothers so annoying?_ It takes forever to get him to quiet and it never lasts, a new fit of temper coming over him every time they make a stop. Nobody shouts at him though and Annie wants to throw her own fit, because that’s not fair. If she had a tantrum, she’d certainly get a scolding.

They’re all very surly by the time they arrive at Westminster (except her daddy, who is lucky enough be riding on a horse), its towers tall and dark against the sky and Annie is too busy closing her eyes and covering her ears to take in London, that sprawling city filled with soldiers and criminals in chains.

(would it have made things better or worse if she had?)

With Aubby momentarily hushed, Annie opens her eyes and is immediately entranced. Her daddy has many great castles, but none as magnificent as Westminster and Annie hangs out the window in awe, Lizbet squeezed against her chest.

“Stop that Anne, you must be on your best behavior,” her mummy reprimands and Annie wilts before settling back in her seat. She pouts and Mummy gives her a sharp look.

“None of that Anne. You must be a lady and ladies do not pout.”

Annie wants to sniffle but doesn’t, Mummy’s eyes narrowed as they watch her. She swallows her unhappiness and buries her nose in Lizbet’s soft hair, Aubby starting to fuss yet again. Her mummy sighs in frustration and Mags starts to make shushing sounds in the hope of keeping him calm (which seems unlikely, judging by their entire miserable journey). _This is no fun at all, I want to go home._

Luckily for all of them, they’ve reached their destination and grooms help them climb down into the courtyard. Mags sets Aubby down and he totters about with a big smile, his little hand held tight in hers. They go up to their rooms to unpack and Annie looks around in wonder, her petulance forgotten, everything here so much more lavish than she’s used to. _The king must be very rich indeed_. She peels off her gloves and cloak when they reach their rooms and can’t wait to go searching for Finny. _The king’s his uncle, he must be here_. She’s just about to head out to find him when her mummy’s sharp voice stops her.

“What are you doing Anne?”

Annie turns to her and frowns in confusion. Mummy sighs.

“You can’t take that doll with you,” she says and Annie’s arms tighten around Lizbet.

“But-” she starts and never finishes.

“Anne, you mustn’t argue. This is the King’s court; we must make a good impression. You need to behave like a lady, not a child. You can either leave that toy here, or you can stay here yourself until you grow up.”

Her words broker no argument and Annie wants to stomp her feet, wants to cry and shout. Mags frowns.

“My lady,” she begins but Lady Mary cuts her off.

“You coddle her Mags, she must learn to behave appropriately.”

Annie squeezes Lizbet and fights back her tears. She is six years old and as much as she likes to pretend she’s all grown up sometimes, she’s not. Lizbet has been her bestest, only friend for as long as she can remember and Annie doesn’t feel safe without her. Mummy makes an aggravated noise.

“Fine then, stay here,” she says and turns to sweep from the room. Annie bites her lip and steps over to the bed. Her hands shake but she sets Lizbet down, tucking her under the covers and smoothing down her hair. _It’s okay, I don’t need Lizbet. I have Finny now, he’s my friend._ She repeats this to herself as she follows Mummy, but it still feels like she’s left an arm or a leg behind, her whole body feeling off and exposed. Mags squeezes her shoulder.

“Just think of all the exciting things you’ll be able to tell her about later,” she whispers and Annie nods, adding that to her mantra. _Lizbet will be so happy to hear all about Finny, she missed him very much._ They make their way down the stairs and Annie wonders where her daddy’s gotten to, because he’s nowhere to be seen.

(this isn’t all that surprising though, he’s always somewhere else)

“The Prince of Wales is about your age Anne, I hope the two of you will get along,” Mummy says and Annie wrinkles her nose.

“He’s mean,” she says and Mummy stops suddenly. She whirls around, her cheeks red and Annie recoils from her fury.

“How dare you,” she hisses, “how dare you say such things. Where would you even hear such an awful thing?”

“Finny told me,” she mumbles, feeling small and Mummy’s nostrils flare.

“I don’t care what that horrid little boy tells you, I never want to hear you say anything like that ever again. Is that clear?”

Her voice is harsh in a way Annie has never heard and she nods, tears starting to sting in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and her mummy’s eyes narrow.

“You should be. He is your future king Anne, you must show him respect.”

Mummy turns back and starts to walk, Annie trailing miserably behind her. Mags strokes her hair tenderly and Annie barely restrains a whimper. She wipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands and though she’s sad, there’s also a kernel of anger in her belly.

_Finny isn’t horrid, he isn’t_

_how dare you mummy, how dare_ you

* * *

Mummy wanders off to gossip with ladies in great tall hats and Annie is left to her own devices. She drags Mags all over the palace, peering in every room for Finny. _He must be here somewhere..._

“Countess Annie!” a jubilant voice calls and she turns, clapping her hands in joy when she sees Finny rushing towards her. He nearly trips on his feet and she laughs, forgetting all the day’s unhappiness in an instant.

“Earl Finny!” she greets and then drops into her best curtsy. His face is red when he reaches her but he bends into a bow right away. He goes to take her hand but then frowns.

“Where’s Lizbet?” he asks and Annie feels her heart ache.

“Mummy says ladies do not have poppets,” she says and tears get caught in her throat. Finny folds his arms across his chest and scowls.

“That’s stupid,” he says firmly and Annie feels her heart bounce.

“Well hello Lord Finnick,” Mags greets as she comes around the corner with Aubby. Finny grins.

“Hullo!” he says and then nods at her brother. “Aubby.”

Aubby ignores him, far more interested in tugging on some fancy curtains. Finny turns back to Annie, his whole face lit up with excitement.

“You’ve never been here before, right?” he asks and she shakes her head. He beams.

“I’ve been here loads of times,” he brags and Annie’s eyes go wide.

“Wow,” she breathes, suitably impressed. He grabs her hand.

“I’ll show you all the best spots,” he promises and then they’re off. Mags smiles fondly and follows after them, Aubby doddling beside her. Finny takes Annie to see the great hall with all its big, long tables and then outside to the gardens covered over in shimmery white snow.

“Oh,” she says softly, entirely enchanted, and Finny squeezes her hand.

“You should see it when it’s warmer,” he says and then they’re off to Finny’s room and its magnificent views. Annie looks out the window and gasps, all of London sprawled out beneath her.

“I can see Essex from here,” Finny says and Annie looks up at him in surprise.

“Really?”

He nods.

“Uh-huh, just over there.”

He points and Annie follows his finger, squinting her eyes.

“I can’t see it,” she sighs and Finny shrugs.

“Well, I’m eight,” he says and Annie nods because that makes perfect sense. He wanders over to the bed and flops down on it, his arms stretched above his head.

“I’ll take you to the stables after; you won’t believe how many horses there are!”

Annie nods and sits beside him.

“Lizbet’s very happy we came,” she says and he turns over to look at her. He smiles and _really_ , she thinks, _he has the nicest smile in the world._

“Me too,” he says and she feels warm down to her toes. He bounces up then and grabs her hand, his fingers wrapping snugly around hers.

“Now come on! There are horses to see!”

He leaps off the bed and takes her with him, and _yes_ , Annie thinks as they laugh through the halls, _I’m very happy I came._

* * *

“Are there any other kids here?” she asks much later when they’re heading to dinner and Finny wrinkles his nose.

“Yes,” he says sourly and Annie frowns.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he mutters and she raises an eyebrow at him. He scowls.

“There’s my cousin, Cato. He’s only five but he’s always bossing me around and acting like a...like a jerk. I’m older but he’s always _I’m a prince Finnick, you have to do what I say Finnick, I’m going to be king Finnick_ , _I could cut your head off Finnick_.”

Annie covers her mouth in horror.

“Could he really?” she whispers and Finny shrugs.

“Not until he’s actually king, but I don’t want him to complain to his father. I hate it when he’s cross; he always does nasty stuff when he is.”

Finny’s voice takes on an odd, unhappy tone and Annie feels her heart shake.

“Oh no,” she says softly and Finny shrugs again.

“Most of the others always do what Cato says, which means never doing anything nice. I hate having to play with them; they always make fun of people and trip servants in the hall. They’re...” and he lowers his voice, “gits, all of them.”

“I don’t think I’ll like them,” she says and his eyes widen.

“They’re not all bad,” he hurries to assure her, “Henry Holland’s okay and so’s the Earl of Salisbury’s son, not that he comes around often. Oh, and the Duke of Suffolk’s son John, though he’s only five...and um, I’ve never actually talked to the Duke of York’s daughter, but I’m sure she’s nice.”

He trails off and looks at her anxiously; as if afraid he’s scared her off. She smiles and takes his hand.

“I’m sure, but even if they’re not, I’ve got you. That’s enough.”

He blinks at her and then smiles sweetly, his fingers tightening on hers.

“Yeah?”

Annie nods without even a little bit of hesitation.

“Definitely.”

Finny beams.

“You’re enough too,” he says and she grins. They head into the great hall together and there are more people milling about inside than Annie has ever seen. She feels suddenly shy and draws closer to Finny’s side, wishing desperately she had Lizbet with her. Finny leads her over to the farthest table where all the children are gathered and she hugs his arm in concern. Finny is enough, more than enough, but that doesn’t mean she’s not afraid to face Cato and his group of meanies.

“Finnick!” a voice calls and she turns to see a boy hurrying towards them. He’s maybe seven with a freckly tanned face, light brown hair, hazel eyes and dirt stains all over his boots. Finny grins.

“Hullo Henry,” he says and this must be Henry Holland.

“Were you outside?” she blurts and then blushes. Henry glances at her and Finny laughs.

“Henry practically lives outside,” he says and Henry sighs.

“I wish,” he says with glittery eyes before giving her a thoughtful look.

“Can you climb trees?” he asks and Annie has to shake her head, feeling somewhat stupid. Henry looks appalled.

“You can teach us,” Finny offers and Annie feels a little less dumb. Henry nods.

“I’ll have to,” he says very seriously and Annie smiles. Finny squeezes her hand and they reach their table. They sit and there’s a knot of children about their age clustered at the far end. Finny narrows his eyes at them before leaning over to whisper in her ear.

“That’s Clove Clifford,” he says, indicating a short girl with very dark hair, “and that’s Glimmer Mowbray”, a tall girl with silvery blonde hair and pale skin, “and that’s Marvel Abernathy,” he finishes, pointing out a boy with muddy brown hair, vibrant green eyes (though not as pretty as Finny’s) and very light brown skin. Annie looks them over and cannot help but hope they’ll be nicer than Finny described.

“I hope supper comes soon,” Henry sighs and then “Finnick! Finnick! Finnick!” an excited voice practically squeals. Finny wilts and Annie looks behind them to see a boy of perhaps five streaking towards them, his cheeks rosy, his eyes wide and his hair the brightest orange she’s ever seen.

“Hello Darius,” Finny says and Darius bounces up and down, looking at Finny with awed adoration.

“This is my friend Annie,” he introduces and Darius looks over at her like she’s fallen straight out of heaven.

“Hello,” she manages, waving slightly, and Darius beams.

“Hi,” he breathes and his whole face lights up. “Finnick’s my cousin! Step-cousin actually,” he amends, though his enthusiasm doesn’t dim. Annie nods.

“Why don’t you sit over here, Henry’ll move, won’t he?” Finny asks and Henry shrugs. He scoots over to the next seat and Darius practically vibrates as he climbs in next to Finny. He just sits there and smiles widely, three of his teeth missing. She wonders if Aubby will be so impressed with her when he grows up.

“And who are you?”

She’d been so caught up in Darius she hadn’t noticed the other children coming over and Annie jumps in her seat. The question is from that blonde girl, Glimmer, who looks down her thin nose at Annie. She ducks her head immediately, her hair falling over her face.

“Anne,” she mumbles.

“What was that?”

“Anne of Oxford,” she says a bit louder, because she has nothing to be embarrassed about. Her daddy’s an earl and that’s impressive, her parents told her so. Glimmer lifts her chin to think about that and the other girl, Clove, thrusts herself forward.

“Never heard of you; I bet your father’s only a knight,” she says as if that’d be the worst thing in the world and Annie feels offended on Uncle George’s behalf.

“He’s an earl actually,” Finny says angrily, “which is better than your dad the baron.”

Clove turns very red and Annie squeezes Finny’s fingers beneath the table. His cheeks are stained crimson, his eyes are narrowed at Clove and _he’s the best_ , she decides, _the very best_.

“My daddy’s a duke,” Glimmer declares, looking at Annie like she’s something grubby on the bottom of her shoe,  and Finny opens his mouth to say something but Henry cuts him off.

“So’s mine,” he says, “which means I get to be a duke someday too. But you don’t right? You only become a duchess if a duke marries you.”

Glimmer scowls at him.

“So?” she asks and Henry looks her dead in the eye.

“I wouldn’t marry you,” he says firmly, “and I doubt you’d want Darius, unless you like babies that is.”

Clove gasps and Glimmer’s eyes go very wide, her lips clamped together so tight they almost disappear. Big, huge tears start to gather in her eyes and then she drops suddenly to the ground, a high pitched wail rising from her mouth. She rolls around, arms waving and Clove backs away like she’s diseased. Marvel Abernathy looks over at her from his spot near the head of the table and rolls his eyes. Annie stares at her in alarm.

“Is she okay?” she asks Finny and he rolls his eyes too.

“She does this all the time,” he says and Annie frowns. Glimmer’s just like Aubby except she’s six, not two.

“Or maybe you do like babies, since you act like one,” Henry says and Annie’s eyes go very wide. Just then a great horn sounds and everyone immediately scrambles to stand up, Annie following suit in bewilderment. Three figures come striding into the hall and she gasps. At the head is a man that must be the king, a glittering crown on his head. Wisps of white hair sneak out from underneath it and his clothes look very heavy, all velvet and jewels and a fur lined cape. His face is parchment coloured, papery and wrinkly like a prune but his lips are very red, almost like he’s bleeding.

Annie’s not sure why, but she suddenly feels very cold.

A lady who must be the queen follows him, her very dark hair woven through with shiny gold thread. Her skin is a warm sort of brown and she smiles, her teeth unusually sharp. Her dress is also heavy looking with costly gems and then comes a boy that must be Finny’s cousin. He’s blonde and smiling smugly, his dark eyes bright. They head to the dais at the front of the hall to sit at the head table and this is her first glimpse at England’s royal family.

Sadly, it won’t be her last.

* * *

“Finnick!” a sharp voice calls as he walks Annie back to her room and he stiffens all over. Annie looks at him in concern and turns to see a lady coming towards them, everything about her severe. She is dressed in sombre colours, her grey eyes are narrowed and she’s plucked her forehead and eyebrows, all her hair pulled tightly back into a caul. Finny inhales sharply.

“Hello mother,” he says, eyes duller than Annie’s ever seen. She gasps a little and looks back at the lady in surprise. _She doesn’t look like Finny at all. She looks meaner._ Finny’s mother sweeps her eyes over Annie in disinterest before focusing on her son.

“Why aren’t you making an effort to befriend your cousin? How many times must I tell you Finnick, you will never achieve your great destiny if you don’t become close to your royal relatives.”

Finny rolls his eyes like he’s heard this all before and Annie frowns. _Great destiny?_

“I don’t like him,” Finny says and his mother purses her lips like she’s just eaten something rotten.

“God has told me you will achieve greatness Finnick, but you must seize it,” she insists and Finny scowls.

“I don’t want to. Cato’s mean and I’ve got Annie now, she’s better.”

Annie feels something happy flutter in her tummy until his mother turns to look at her, her lips curling back over her teeth.

“Annie?” she echoes and Annie feels small and useless under her withering look. Finny squeezes her hand.

“Yes, she’s my countess.”

His mother laughs shortly, but it isn’t a nice sound at all.

“You are the king’s nephew, your countess will be someone of far more importance than this Annie,” she says and her voice drips with something nasty and cruel. Annie almost wants to cry and wishes she had Lizbet to hug.

“Oh there you are Anne, I was worried,” comes Mags familiar voice and they all turn to see her walking towards them. Her smile soothes Annie’s hurt but her eyes widen when she takes note of Finny’s mother and she drops into a curtsy.

“Lady Alma,” she says and the lady in question barely even seems to notice her. She turns back to Finny with a frown.

“I see I will have to have a talk with your uncle, Boggs is not raising you as I would like,” she says and Annie doesn’t say it, but she thinks that might be a good thing. Finny merely glares at her. Lady Alma gives them both one last harsh look before she leaves and Finny seems to wilt as soon as she’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and Annie shakes her head.

“It’s not your fault. And what does she mean by destiny?”

Finny bites his lip.

“God talks to her,” he says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t believe it at all, “and He tells her that I’m going to be someone amazing someday. Except I always ruin all her plans.”

He sounds sad and Annie frowns. She squeezes his hand.

“I think you’re amazing right now,” she says and his eyes go very wide. For a moment Annie thinks he might cry but then he smiles.

“You’re amazing too,” he says and she feels all of Lady Alma’s rudeness melt away. Mags reaches out to stroke both their heads.

“Alright you two, it’s best you get to bed. It’s been a long night.”

She leads them off and Annie decides right then that she doesn’t like Lady Alma at all. _Anyone who makes Finny sad is bad_ and never in her life has she ever been surer of anything than she is of that.

* * *

All the festivities over the next week are incredible, but nothing is better than presents on New Year’s.

Annie gets a fancy comb and brocade for a new dress from her parents, while everyone at court has to give the king something amazing and expensive. He gets golden cups, sparkly jewels, yards of velvet and fur lined cloaks, even a new horse from the Duke of Exeter.

“Henry’s dad,” Finny whispers to her and she nods. The king has a great, big mound of gifts when it’s all over and something awful occurs to Annie.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she tells Finny mournfully. “I’m a terrible Countess.”

“I didn’t get you anything either,” he admits and taps his chin. His eyes widen.

“I know, here,” he says pulling off one of his rings and handing it to her. It’s silver with a pretty pattern of swirls and Annie cradles it in her palm.

“I love it,” she says and pulls off one of her own. It’s gold with one little pearl and Finny smiles.

“Thank you Countess Annie,” he says and puts it on his pinky. Annie pushes his onto her thumb.

That night she curls around Lizbet in bed and stares at that ring, her whole body warm and happy.

_This is the bestest bestest new year’s ever_

_ever ever_

* * *

It’s sad saying goodbye, but Finny promises they’ll see each other again soon. Annie holds onto that as they roll away from Westminster and she cannot wait.

_soon_

* * *

_1458_

It turns out to be much sooner than either of them would have guessed.

In February, on Saint Valentine’s Day, Annie wakes to the sound of screaming. It is a wailing, wretched, heartbroken sound and she is frozen in her bed, far too terrified to go see what’s going on. She curls around Lizbet and listens to that shrieking, male and female, her heart hammering in her throat.

_What could it be?_

It sounds like it’s just beyond her door and then something shatters, like a vase against the wall. Annie flinches and her fear doubles, a sick feeling bubbling in her stomach. More sounds of destruction follow, over top of weeping and Annie cannot even guess what might be going on. Only six and terrified, she thinks the world is ending.

In a way, it is.

Aubrey Cresta, two years old, is dead.

He’d had a cold, but no one could have predicted this, could’ve imagined it would become so much more deadly overnight. His little body is clammy when they find it and it is Annie’s mother that wails so loudly, tearing at her hair and clothes. It is her father who rampages, sobbing as he breaks everything in sight. Mags merely cradles her poor lifeless boy, weeping into his chest and there is no heartbeat there, nothing at all.

(Annie sits in their nursery later and cries her own tears, because it is quiet, so quiet, no Aubby to disturb her peace. His muddy shoes sit by the door, a wooden horse lies sideways on a shelf but there’s no Aubby.

There never will be again)

Castle Camps becomes a tomb, filled to the brim with grief and darkness and tragedy, spun over them like an intricate web. Little, tiny Aubby is prepared for burial and there is not a single smile to be seen, no laughter heard at all. Everything is misery and something important dies with Aubby, something they’ll never get back. Her parents lock themselves away, away from her and away from each other, their sorrow too heavy to carry. Annie sits with Mags in the hush death has brought to their home and feels oddly empty. Mags strokes her hair, kisses her head and tells her Aubby is gone to be with God. She is still too young to fully grasp what that means, but she does know it means he’s gone and never coming back.

Her whole family comes to the funeral, her uncles, aunts and cousins and her parents look at those children with wounded, hostile eyes. Neither one of them ever looks at Annie. Other people she doesn’t know come too, each one with sympathetic words that never seem to soften her parents’ broken edges. Boggs and Finny arrive on the day of and Finny holds her hand throughout the ceremony, the Latin floating up and over Annie’s head.

_Soon_

_I had wanted soon_

_I shouldn’t have_

Mags sobs into her hands, her father falls to his knees and her mother sits there in silence, tears streaming down her face. Annie looks at them and feels as if she is drowning in their mourning, Aubby’s death like a puncture wound into the bubble of their life.

_Oh Aubby, why did you go?_

(she’s so caught up in her parents’ agony, she doesn’t even realize she’s started crying until Finny wipes the tears from her cheeks)

* * *

They leave Castle Camps after that and Annie wonders if they’ll ever be back. Aubby’s ghost lingers there and she doesn’t think her parents could ever survive the haunting. Finny hugs her goodbye and his arms are warm, his embrace as comforting and safe as Mags’. She breathes him in slowly, his skin smelling just like summer, and she wants to stay here, where it feels like nothing bad could ever touch her.

“I’ll come visit as soon as I can,” he promises and she nods, the harshness of her pain softening just a bit. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, tears tickling her eyes.

“He was so small, what will he do all alone?” she murmurs, fear thick in her veins, and Finny tightens his hold on her.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, “my Dad’ll look after him.”

Annie closes her eyes and breathes a little easier.

“Thank you, Earl Finny,” she says and he squeezes her.

“Anything for you Countess Annie.”

* * *

Soon after that, their lives fall into a pattern.

They spend every summer together, bathing in the river no matter the consequences, rolling down hills, catching frogs and fighting invisible dragons. They laugh together, sneak cakes from the kitchen and it’s perfect.

(or as perfect as anything can be in Coriolanus’ England)

They meet up again in time for Christmas and there’s hide and seek in the king’s grand castles, magnificent pageants to enjoy and lovely new year’s gifts to exchange, a brooch she gives him when she’s eight, fabric for a new dress for Lizbet, a deck of cards, a beautiful book of hours from him when she’s ten.

( _you’re ten now, that’s a milestone, right?_ )

He regales her with the thrilling tale of his grandparents’ love, the Welsh servant and the widowed queen who eloped in secret. He tells her how they’d defied the law forbidding a queen to remarry without the king’s permission, how his grandmother had fought parliament itself to have his grandpa Owen granted the rights of an Englishman and how his grandfather had been arrested but managed to escape Newgate Prison and flee. It’s better than any made up story or romance, full of adventure and love and Annie sighs, eyes bright.

_How romantic, I wonder if anyone will ever love me that much_

_I will,_ he promises her at all of ten years old, _I’ll love you even more than that_.

They grow up side by side but there are shadows of course, lurking just beyond the summer sun’s bright rays.

There is a hole in Annie’s home, Aubby’s death followed by another miscarried boy tearing her family apart, and the chill in their halls never seems to warm. Her father spends so long away, away at court, at his other castles, just _away_ , that Annie wonders if he even recognizes her when he’s finally home. Her mother is sharp and jagged, brittle and no matter what she does, Annie can never make it better.

_(put that doll away!)_

_(grow up Anne, stop being such a child)_

Annie lies in bed and thinks of little Aubby, his chubby cheeks and mud stained shoes, and _oh Aubby Aubby, why did you leave us?_

 _(_ and under all that, she thinks, _did my parents love him more than me?)_

There is a weight on Finnick’s small shoulders, one growing heavier as he grows older, as every day passes. There is Cato hounding his steps with sharp words, taunts and Finnick bites his tongue, letting every wound fester until he thinks he might pop.

_(you must make him love you Finnick, how do you think you’ll ever achieve your destiny without royal favour?)_

There is his uncle, the King, glorious and vicious and vindictive. Executions in every city he visits, cruelties lavished on all who displease him and his darkness looms over everything Finnick does, breeding fear in his heart and suffocating him under the  pressure to live up to royal expectations.

( _you are my nephew Finnick, you are a part of this family. Every mistake of yours is a mistake of ours, your failures reflect on us. You wouldn’t want to disgrace us Finnick, you may trust us on that_ )

At eleven, Finny loses his grandfather, Owen Odair, the Welsh servant who won the heart of a Queen. He had been kind, friendly and Finny had adored him. He’d taught him to speak Welsh ( _always be proud of who you are Finnick, no matter what anyone else says_ ), told him the best stories of fighting in France and all about the royal grandmother Finny’d never met ( _she was beautiful, but more than that, she was clever. Catherine always beat me at everything, from cards to horse racing. I think she passed those skills onto you_ ).

He’d never had anything but love for his grandfather and Annie mourns with him when he dies, holding him as he cries for days afterward. King Coriolanus doesn't bother to attend the funeral and he denies Owen the chance to be buried beside his love with a mocking laugh. _A Welsh servant has no place amongst the kings_ he says of his step-father and so Owen is laid to rest in Boggs’ chapel, far from the woman he’d risked everything to be with _. It’s tragic,_ Annie always says _, but I’m sure they’re together now anyway_.

And there are whispers too, about unhappiness and discontent in the countryside, in the towns, a rumble of terrible things to come. Riots flare up here and there, followed by bloody, violent punishments, and the whole country is just waiting for a chance to erupt. But there is also Mags and Uncle Boggs to love them, Henry to teach them to climb trees, little Darius to coo in awe at every little thing they do, and perhaps best of all, there’s each other.

It isn’t perfect, not really, but they are young and the world around them still seems wide open with possibility.

(if only it could stay that way)

* * *

 _1468  
_ _March_

Scotland.

After spending a lifetime listening to his uncle call the Scots savages, barbarians, little better than dogs, it is Scotland that provides their refuge. The teenaged King James III welcomes them with open arms and provides them with much needed shelter and sustenance. He is far more gracious than Finnick himself would be if faced with his greatest enemy begging for help and looking at the two kings before him, it is pretty clear who the savage is.

(not that he’d ever say such a thing aloud of course)

Finnick knows he should be grateful he is alive after the massacre at Towton and he is, really. But Annie is still in England, alone and at the mercy of the Yorkists and it is only Uncle Boggs keeping watch over him like a warden that stops him from fleeing back to England. He can barely breathe with fear for her and _how could I leave you?_

“She is safer in England. The Yorkists won’t harm her, she hasn’t done anything wrong. Their grievance is with her father, not her. If you’d brought her with you, she would be in danger. Exile is a perilous life; we will be hunted and slaughtered if we are ever caught. You did the right thing,” Uncle Boggs keeps telling him and he repeats it to himself but never believes it. Annie is alone in hostile territory and if anything happens to her...

_Be safe Annie, please be safe_

* * *

_1462_

Everything changes the year she turns eleven.

Their visits usually happen in June or latest July, but this time Finny only shows up mid-way through August, three days after her eleventh birthday. He’d written of course, explained that the king wanted him in London, but Annie would be lying if she said there wasn’t a curl of uneasiness in her stomach. Mags merely laughs fondly and strokes her hair.

“He’ll be here soon,” she murmurs and Annie nods.

_Maybe I’m just being silly._

(if only)

She is waiting outside when he finally arrives at Hedingham, his bronze hair shining in the sun. He beams when he sees her and leans forward in his saddle to wave. Annie smiles and feels her heart bouncing happily in her chest. He leaps neatly off his horse, all his limbs longer than they used to be, and Annie flings her arms around him, his own coming around her in a hug. He’s taller than he was at Christmas, not a lot, but definitely taller. He pulls back and she looks at him, all the baby fat that had clung to his cheeks seeming to have melted away.

“I missed you,” he says and happy bubbles fill her up.

“I missed you too,” she tells him, unable to keep down her smile, and he squeezes her.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he apologizes, “but I brought you a present!”

Annie smiles, fondness coursing through her like a river, and even though she’s older, she still can’t think of a single word to truly describe the perfect green of his eyes.

“You didn’t have to,” she says, “you’re present enough.”

She says it like she’s teasing but she isn’t and he smiles, her favourite, slow, corner-of-the-mouth smile that makes her every bone warm beneath her skin. Her mother clears her throat loudly.

“Perhaps we should move this inside,” she says with a particularly sharp look at Finny and Annie. They do and Annie loops her arm through Finny’s, practically skipping towards the doors.

“Come on,” he whispers just to her, “I want to give you your present.”

Her heart hums with excitement and she nods, tugging him off towards the stairs.

“Anne!” her mother calls in annoyance but she doesn’t stop.

“I’m just going to help him unpack,” she shouts back over her shoulder and the two of them pick up their pace to make sure no one stops them. They hurry into his room and thankfully his trunk is already there, Finny immediately heading straight to it. He flings open the lid and digs through it, tossing things out of the way. A stray pair of hose hits her square in the face and she laughs, winding the legs around her wrists.

“Is this my gift then?” she teases and he turns in confusion. He rolls his eyes when she holds up the hose for him to see and she laughs again.

“Very funny,” he says and turns back to his digging.

“Did you forget it?” she asks and he briefly looks at her to stick out his tongue.

“No, I just made sure to put it right in the middle, so it’d be cushioned on all sides. I didn’t want anything to happen to it.”

A thrill runs up her spine and she squeezes the hose, the anticipation driving her wild. _What could it be?_

“Hah!” he crows in triumph and then turns, a lovely little box in his hands. He bounces over to her and she might be vibrating. She takes it and he sits beside her, watching her eagerly as she lifts the lid.

“Finny,” she gasps, her eyes stretching wide. Sitting in that box is the most beautiful necklace she’s ever seen, so beautiful she’s almost afraid to touch it. It’s three strings of pearls interspersed with emeralds and from the center hangs a golden filigree heart with the loveliest emerald of all right in the middle.

“Do you like it?” he asks and she can barely speak.

“It’s...oh Finny, it’s beautiful, too beautiful,” she murmurs in awe and he bumps her shoulder with his.

“Just like you then,” he says and her heart beats fast.

“I love it,” she whispers and he smiles

“Do you want to try it on?” he asks and she nods, pulling back her hair. He clasps it behind her neck, fingers soft when they skim her skin and she gasps at herself in the mirror.

“Oh Finny,” she says and then flings herself on him. He catches her and laughs, squeezing her around the middle.

“Happy birthday, my Countess.”

And it is happy, though not because of the necklace. It’s because of him. She’d meant what she said before.

No gift, no matter how grand, could ever be as perfect as Finny himself.

* * *

“What did the King want?” she asks later when they’re lying side by side in the grass, their fingers linked. Finny sighs.

“To tell me what a disappointment I am,” he says and Annie bristles in outrage.

“What?” she demands and Finny squeezes her fingers.

“As the King’s nephew, it is my duty to befriend the next generation and ensure their loyalty to their sovereign lord. I am not nearly charming or amiable enough.”

“I think you’re very charming and amiable,” she says, still smarting at the King’s rudeness. Finny grins.

“You’re the only one who thinks so, apparently. According to the King I am nothing but a social failure. From now on, I must be the model courtier, hobnobbing with all the noble children. Even if I hate them, I have to lie and smile and act as if we’re all the best of friends.”

His voice is bitter and Annie frowns.

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to win their affection, all to bind these up and coming nobles more closely to our royal house.  And if they prove resistant to being bound, I am to gain their confidence so I might learn all their secrets. He wants me to kiss ass and then report everything back to him. He wants me to be a liar and a spy.”

Annie doesn’t know what to say to that so she scoots a little closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly and he shrugs, his smile false and his laugh fake.

“Ah well, that’s the price you pay when you’re related to royalty. Actually, I was hoping you might do me a favour.”

“What?” she asks and he pauses a moment as if embarrassed.

“Well, um...couldyoumaybeteachmetodance?”

It comes out in a breathless rush and Annie blinks, not having caught a single word.

“Huh?”

His face turns pink and he breathes in deeply.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he admits and her eyes go very wide.

“Really?”

“There just always seemed to be something better to do, but now my uncle’s insisting I dance with every girl at court and I’m going to make an absolute fool of myself. I know you’ve had a dance tutor, so help me? Please?”

Annie props herself up on her elbow and looks at him, all earnest and anxious. She nods.

“Alright,” she says, “I’ll teach you.”

“Really?”

She leans over him, her hair falling around them like a curtain.

“Of course,” she says, mock-offended that he would doubt her, and he grins. He pulls her down on top of him in a hug and Annie nestles into his chest with a smile. She loves hugging Finny; she always feels like she’s exactly where she belongs.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you Annie,” he says and she can’t help a cheeky grin.

“Make a fool of yourself at court,” she teases and he laughs.

“I would. Thank you. And as a show of my appreciation, I’m going to ask you to dance first. Not just next time we’re at court, but always. Until the day I die, you’ll always be my first dance.”

She lifts her head up a little to look at him in surprise.

“Really?”

He nods.

“I have to dance with everyone apparently, but you’re the only one I really want to dance with.”

Annie feels her heart smile.

“And I’ll always say yes,” she promises and he grins, squeezing her. She lays her head back down on his chest and listens to his heart beat.

_If everyday could be just like this one, well, everyday would be perfect wouldn’t it?_

* * *

She spends the next two weeks teaching him every dance step she knows and he is naturally graceful, so unlike the clumsy Finny he used to be. It’s fun, the two of them spinning around (though they never have any music, Finny much much too embarrassed to ever allow anyone else to know what they’re up to) and Annie doesn’t want it to ever end.

But then, she never wants her time with Finny to end.

It does though, it always does, but this time it comes far sooner than she could have expected. Only two weeks after he’d arrived, the King calls Finny to join him at his Leeds Castle. Annie is furious.

“You only just got here,” she says angrily as Finny packs and he sighs.

“I know.”

“He just saw you.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t fair,” she snaps and Finny sighs again. Most of the time, nearly all the time, she barely notices that Finny is two years older than her. But sometimes, like now, he seems older and she feels childish in comparison.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” he says and Annie does everything within her power to stop from pouting. A great many petulant, whining thoughts rise up inside her but she forces them down. If Finny can be grown up about this, then so can she.

“I know, but I’d hoped you’d at least stay until your birthday.”

“Me too, but what the King commands, I obey.”

He says the last bit bitterly and Annie feels something hard settle in her stomach. _Oh Finny._ She throws her arms around him and squeezes tight.

“I’ll miss you,” she murmurs and he nods, holding her closer than he ever has before.

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispers and Annie doesn’t know it of course, but this is just the start of the King taking Finny away from her.

(she’ll learn soon enough)

* * *

Finny does everything his uncle wants of him.

He smiles, charms and laughs with every young noble at court, even as he hates himself for it. He is a liar, but worse, he allows them to say and do awful things, all to convince them he’s their friend. He laughs when they trip servants in the hall, ignores the people they hate and agrees easily with every insult they throw at those not in their little circle.

“Ugh, I can’t believe George Neville asked me to dance, his father’s only a knight. Like I’d ever stoop so low,” Glimmer Mowbray says in disgust before fluttering her eyelashes at him and Finny grins.

“You deserve much better than that,” he says and she beams.

It’s the same as every day and Finny makes himself sick, but carries on anyway.

(not that he’s allowed to do anything else)

His uncle’s eyes follow him around every room and so Finny acts just the way his uncle wants, even though all he really wants to do is tell Glimmer and her ilk that they’re awful, rude and deluded if they think their titles make them so much better than everyone else.

They’re not better than anyone. But then, neither is he.

_What have I become?_

_(you don’t want to know)_

* * *

Christmas arrives and thankfully, so does Annie.

She is a like a breath of fresh air and Finny yearns so badly to run off with her, to have everything go back to how it used to be. Just him and Annie and Henry and even little Darius. He can’t of course, he must continue his charade but still, if he could have Annie beside him, it would be so much easier to bear.

But he doesn’t have her.

Annie flutters at the periphery of all their gatherings, always watching him but never once trying to approach him. When he manages to get a moment with her, even away from all the others, she is shy and quiet, so unlike the smiling, affectionate Annie he is used to. He is almost too afraid to ask why; terrified she will tell him she is disgusted by him. It takes until the final ball of the festivities before he is able to pluck up the courage.

There is a magnificent feast and Annie spends it all with some blonde girl he doesn’t know. He tries to convince himself he has nothing to worry about, that she is not avoiding him; she is merely making new friends. After all, he can see his birthday hanging about her neck, as lovely as he’d knew it’d look on her, that must mean she still likes him, right?

He sits at the head of the table, smiling and chatty, but that worry eats at him all throughout dinner. When they migrate to another room for dancing, Finny knows the time is now. He searches through the crowd until he sees her, her eyes sparkling as she looks at the dance floor, and he heads right over, determined and terrified. He bows when he reaches her and smiles as best he can.

“Lady Anne, may I have this dance?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes, her cheeks flushing a deep, dark pink but she nods quickly and he takes her pale hands in his. He leads her out amongst the other dancing couples and still she won’t look at him, a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

“So, who’s your new friend?” he asks, trying to sound nothing but mildly curious. She smiles.

“Madge of Bedford.”

Her voice is warm and happy as she says it and Finny cannot help but smile too. The name is familiar and it takes him a minute to figure out why.

“Oh, she’s my cousin,” he says and Annie finally does look up at him, her eyes wide.

“Really?”

“Well, first cousin once removed. Her mother, Margaret, is my actual first cousin. Which is weird, since she’s old enough to be my mum.”

“Oh. She’s very nice, Madge is,” Annie says and even though he’s still a little sick with worry, he cannot help being happy for her.

“My mother thinks I should marry her,” he mentions and Annie’s eyes go very wide, before she drops her head, eyes turned straight down to the floor.

“Really?” she asks, her voice at a much higher pitch than normal.

“Uh-huh. She’s the richest heiress in England by a huge amount, no one but the King has more land and money than her father. She’s also set to inherit two dukedoms, not to mention her royal blood. I bet nearly everyone in England wants to marry her.”

“Oh,” Annie says quietly, “well, she is lovely.”

“I’m sure she is, but I don’t want to marry her.”

Annie looks up at him in surprise.

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m happy being an Earl, I don’t need a dukedom. And really, what would I do with two of them? I think I’m rich enough on my own and I already have royal blood, I don’t need hers. I mean, I’ve never even spoken to her. And anyway, I already have a countess.”

He says it with a smile and Annie just stares at him, her eyes very wide and her cheeks red. Finny feels like he may be sick.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asks quietly and he’s so, so terrified she’ll say yes. She tilts her head a bit.

“Wrong?”

He nods.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Annie bites her lip and drops her head again, looking flustered.

“I haven’t, I...well, you’re making all these new friends and I’ve never been very popular with people like Glimmer, I didn’t want to get in the way.”

Her voice is very small when she says it and Finny shakes his head, both relieved and flabbergasted.

“Annie, you could never get in the way. Never. No matter what happens, I’ll always want you with me. You don’t have to sit with me or spend time with me if you don’t want to obviously, but just...don’t ever think I don’t want you to. I do, of course I do. You’re my countess, my best friend, my Annie.” He pauses then and swallows, his nerves nearly eating him alive. “That is, if you still want to be.”

He can’t help sounding vulnerable, all his worries crowded in his mouth and slipping out, but Annie looks at him shyly, her eyes bright.

“Of course I do, I always will. But your mother, she...doesn’t like me.”

Finny rolls his eyes and can’t help but smile, buoyed by her words.

“My mother doesn’t like anyone. It doesn’t matter anyway; she’s not in charge of me. I still like you best of all the girls I know.”

“I like you best of all the boys I know,” Annie says, her smile starting to unfurl and Finny feels his heart bounce in his chest.

“That’s what matters most. And anyway, think how jealous Madge or anyone else would be. You’ll always be my favourite girl, not to mention I promised you’d always be my first dance; that might be awkward at my wedding.”

Annie giggles a bit and he grins, spinning her around.

“See? It’s better for everyone if I marry you,” he says and she laughs, the sound lifting his spirits up to the roof.

“Okay. I’ll be your countess Earl Finny, happily.”

“Good.”

They grin at each other and the dance comes to an end, Finny not quite ready to let her go.

“You’re not very good, are you?” comes Cato’s harsh voice and both Finny and Annie look over at him.

“My most sincere apologies, your Highness,” Madge of Bedford says with a curtsy, possessing far more grace than Finny is sure he’d have if he were in her position. Cato stomps off and Annie puts a hand over her mouth in distress. People whisper and point while Madge tries to keep her head high, moving to the edge of the room with as much dignity as she can muster.

“Well, I think I’ve found my next partner,” he says, hating Cato for heaping this humiliation on Madge’s head. Annie looks up at him with a grateful smile.

“Idiot!” the King bellows and Annie jumps, her nails digging into Finny’s arm. Finny himself feels his heart thump and he watches his uncle strike a serving boy across the face, sending him and his wine jug crashing to the floor.

“Useless cur!” his uncle roars and Annie hides her face in Finny’s chest. He holds her, too horrified to look away and his uncle kicks that boy, over and over and over again.

“Did I say you were allowed to stop?” his uncle barks at the minstrels and they start playing again, their music slightly hysterical.

“Remove this filth from my hall!” the King shouts at two guards who yank the bleeding boy up. Finny fights the urge to be sick.

“Lord Brutus, see that the wretch is properly dealt with.”

The Duke of Somerset, the king’s cruellest noble, swaggers forward, his expression hungry.

“As you command, my king.”

Finny watches as the terrified serving boy is hauled off for some horrific torture and cannot help remembering the gruesome executions that had kicked off the festivities this year.

_England is dying_

He thinks it only briefly, that thought much too dangerous to be allowed to linger. He is the king’s nephew but it would only take one wrong word to send him to the torture chambers, to have him dragged through the streets in chains, even to find his head on a pike on the gates.

_I wonder, will we ever be safe here?_

_Or are we to live our whole lives in fear?_

* * *

_1468  
March-August_

The Yorkists may have won England, they may rule it now, but King Coriolanus has no intention of letting that stand.

Almost as soon as they reach Scotland, the Lancastrians begin making plans to retake the kingdom, all with the support of James III of Scotland. He has promised to aid them in their struggle against the Yorkists, though this cooperation does have a price. Finnick is not made privy to all the clauses in James’ proposed treaty, but he does find out that James would like to seal their alliance with the marriage of his sister Margaret to Cato, Prince of Wales. Margaret is thirteen and seems pleasant enough, but Cato is beyond unimpressed. Finnick isn’t exactly surprised. He has never liked his cousin, in fact, he doubts very much that he ever will, but he does have to admit that when it comes to fidelity, Cato has always been true to Clove Clifford.

(though a part of him wonders if that’s because Clove Clifford seems the type to punish betrayal with a great deal of pain, if not outright death)

(honestly, he’s not even slightly surprised they get along so well)

Their liaison is an open secret, mostly because they don’t seem to have any understanding of the word “discretion”. Everyone on the entire bloody island has probably walked in on them in some intimate act; Finnick himself has witnessed their lovemaking so many times he’s given up counting.

It isn’t surprising that the Prince of Wales has a mistress, most would expect it of him, the surprise is just how blatant he is about it. Besides ravishing each other everywhere they can, they are nearly glued at the hip, Clove accompanying Cato everywhere except to his most important meetings. He showers her with jewels and gifts and he even listens to her, something Finnick never would’ve imagined possible. He suspects the king only allows the affair to continue because he assumes it must be a purely lustful arrangement, if he had any inkling Cato cared at all, Finnick is sure he would order it terminated. Clove is the daughter of a baron and not at all suitable as a wife to a future king, something Princess Margaret most certainly is.

The king despises the Scots with a flaming passion and has often mused aloud how he’d love to carry on Edward I’s great work and crush them to dust, but he is very low on options right now. James III knows this, Finnick is sure, and fully intends to press his advantage.

The Lancastrian exiles have almost nothing except for what King James sees fit to give them, they are entirely at his mercy. Some did manage to gather some riches before they fled England, but most, like Finnick, have nothing but what they wore into battle that day. He has a horse, his armour and what he’d worn beneath it and that’s all. To make matters worse, reports from England have confirmed what he’d known was coming, he has been attainted and everything he owns now belongs to Queen Katniss of York. He is officially destitute.

Enobaria and Cato did manage to take coins and jewels with them when they’d made their flight from Westminster (and Finnick is both disgusted and unsurprised to learn King Coriolanus abandoned them and tried only to save himself), but it is nowhere near enough to keep them all housed, fed, clothed and to fund an army for invasion. King James is their only hope of regaining England and it is on his generosity that they live. It is a bitter pill for his uncle to swallow, but it is the truth. With that in mind, the king consents to the engagement and so alongside their plans for conquering England, the betrothal ceremony of Prince Cato, heir of England and Princess Margaret of Scotland is planned.

Cato is furious over the whole thing and if Cato were anyone else, Finnick would certainly be sympathetic. He is sure it is just awful to be forced into a marriage with someone when you are so deeply attached to someone else, but sympathy for Cato has always been difficult to come by. Especially at moments like now.

“So, how is the monkish life suiting you?” Cato cackles at him, one arm wrapped snugly around Clove’s waist. Finnick inhales sharply but swallows his words. No matter how tempting, he is not allowed to knock Cato’s teeth in.

“You’re little fiancée in England must be so charmed that you’re being so chaste,” he continues and Clove smirks cruelly. Finnick bites his tongue and this mocking of his faithfulness is rich coming from Cato, who has never touched any woman but Clove.

“Or perhaps it isn’t a choice, perhaps your little prick doesn’t even work.”

Cato and Clove both laugh as if that’s the funniest thing in the entire world and Finnick barely manages to stop his eyes from rolling. His manhood works just fine (and it isn’t little, so sod off) but there’s no one in the world that could ever tempt him away from Annie. _Cato’s just trying to get a rise out of you, ignore him._ Finnick does, but then he’s had a lifetime of practice.

“I wonder if she’s being quite so virginal,” Clove says nastily, dark eyes fixed on Finnick but he doesn’t allow her the satisfaction of a reaction. She can taunt all she likes, if there’s one thing he trusts, it’s Annie.

_Annie, oh Annie_

He misses her with a fierceness that scares him and he dreams of her every night, dreams of seeing her again, holding her, talking to her and...well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the Earl of Oxford can’t read thoughts, or Finnick might find himself missing a crucial part of his anatomy.

Sometimes though, his dreams are nightmares.

He’s been going out of his mind with worry, so much so he can barely function. He has no idea where she is, how she is and now with her father attainted, she will have nothing and no one. Sometimes he wakes cold, sweaty, with his heart galloping in his chest and it’s because of Annie, because of all the horrible things that he imagines happening to her. Her only hope is that someone takes pity on her, a relative or friend or even the Yorkists, if not she’ll be left homeless and starving.

And that’s if she even survived.

Word had reached them that the Duke of Buckingham had burned Hedingham and Finnick had actually puked when he’d heard. Annie was at Hedingham and God only knows what Darius had done with her. It was almost inconceivable that his step-father’s little nephew could have turned on them so entirely, but he had proved it rather convincingly. In any other circumstance, Finnick might have cared about that betrayal, but all he can feel is his fear for Annie, tormenting him day in and day out. The only thing that keeps him sane is focusing on their planned invasion, pinning all his hopes on the idea that he will soon be back in England, soon he’ll be able to find her and make sure she’s safe.

_She has to be_

_Please Annie, please be safe_

* * *

  _1463_

Of all the castles she’s been to, Finny’s Dunstanburgh Castle in Northumberland is by far her favourite. It is a great big fortress on the coast and from the moment she’d first visited, she’d been enchanted. There is something about the sea stretching out before them, about the salt in the air that’s just stunning.  She feels... _alive_ here in a way she never does anywhere else.

“Annie!” a hearty voice calls and she beams, turning around in her saddle to see Finny headed down the castle’s front steps. He is taller yet again, broader and, well, _handsome_. Annie blushes but it’s true, he seems to grow lovelier every time she sees him. His skin has a sunshine touch of gold, his hair shines bronze and there’s something about his face, something she could never hope to describe.  A groom helps her down from her horse and she throws herself on Finny, breathing in his smell of sea and summer.

“It’s good to see you,” he whispers and his breath is hot on her ear. She shivers a bit and squeezes him as tight as she can.

“Oh Finny,” she sighs and he stiffens for a just a moment. She pulls back to look at him and there’s a shadow in his eyes, one that flits away almost before she recognizes it.

“I’m a bit old for Finny, don’t you think?” he laughs and she blinks.

“Oh, okay. Finnick.”

It sounds a little off on her tongue, a blot of melancholy appears on her heart and she keeps thinking about that shadow in his eyes.

“Should I call you Anne?” he asks and she shakes her head.

“No, I like Annie best.”

He nods and that shadow is back, dark and sad as it flutters over him. It’s gone a moment later and he’s all smiles, tugging her by the hand.

“Come on, I’ll help you unpack.”

(what she doesn’t know, what she can’t know, is that what he wants to say is _I’m still Finny, I’ll always be your Finny_ )

(but then he remembers his uncle, stern, unforgiving and his words _It’s time for you to grow up Finnick_ )

_(no more tears, no more childish games, it’s time you became a man)_

* * *

“I’m scared,” Annie admits later while they float around in one of the castles meres. He’d taught her to swim here years ago but now she finds herself feeling shy, almost afraid to touch his bare skin like she never has been before.

“Of what?” he asks, shaking his head like a dog. The sunlight makes the water on him sparkle and for a moment she is distracted from what she’d been thinking.

“Annie?”

She pinches her arm and grasps at her former train of thought.

“There are riots, Finnick, all over the country. What if they get worse?”

He frowns for a moment and she lingers over those lips, a steady heat growing in her face.

“They won’t,” he says firmly and she looks up into his eyes, lovely and perfectly green. “Local riots are one thing, but it’s not as if these people are going to start rebelling against the King. They’re just a little upset, it’ll blow over.”

Annie nods but deep down, she’s not so sure she believes it.

She’s not sure he believes it either.

* * *

They were right not to.

Rebellion, real rebellion, breaks out in September.

Uncle Boggs is ordered to help stamp it out and Finnick is sent off to join Annie and her mother at Great Canfield Castle. It’s a relief in a sense, he’s not sure he could have survived the worry all by himself. Her father is also off to fight and he knows the minute he sees her that she is taking just as much comfort in him as he is in her. Still, they try and behave like this is any other visit, like death is not lurking just beyond their walls.

“Please Mags, oh please can’t we?” Annie begs and Mags raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure your lady mother would approve,” she says and Finnick grimaces. Annie’s eyes widen with perfect misery and she clasps her hands.

“Oh please Mags, just for an hour. I swear we’ll be good,” she promises and Mags rolls her eyes with a fond smile.

 “Oh alright, just don’t get into any trouble,” she says with mock sternness and Finnick grins.

“Never,” he swears, hand pressed to his heart and Mags laughs.

“Oh go on then,” she says and they do, smiling as they run off hand in hand. They rush down to the river and the air is sticky and warm, absolutely perfect for a swim.

“I’ve been dreaming of this,” he says and means it, “there’s nowhere to swim in London. The Thames smells rank; I’d probably catch the plague swimming in there.”

Annie laughs and Finnick grins before he pulls off his belt. Annie reaches behind her to undo her girdle as Finnick tugs off his boots and he can’t help but notice the slight red tinge to her skin. She turns so he can unlace her houppelande and his fingers fumble with the ties, a strange sort of heat fluttering in his belly.

“Dresses should be easier to get out of,” he mutters and she shivers a little with his breath on her neck. He finally gets it and then the kirtle beneath it until she’s in nothing but her shift and boots. His stomach feels all the hotter and just like over the summer, he can’t help but notice how different she looks. She’s taller than she used to be, but then so is he. Her shift leaves little to the imagination and he can see her every curve, ones that definitely didn’t used to exist. She sits down to take her boots off and he shakes his head. He pulls off his doublet and then his hose, the feel of Annie’s eyes on him making him feel twitchy (though not really in a bad way). She stands up and he yanks off his shirt. Annie gasps.

“Oh Finnick,” she breathes and reaches out to touch his back. He shivers at her touch, her fingers soft on his skin and he knows without asking what she must have seen.

“Oh, right,” he says with a laugh, as if he’d forgotten all about it. He knows she’s seeing thin white scars on his back, each one trailing diagonally from left shoulder to right hip.

“What happened?” she asks and he can’t look at her, his easy smile only barely staying on.

“I might’ve told Cato to take his head out of his arse, which as it turns out, didn’t make him all that happy. It’s my own fault, I should’ve known better. He complained to his father, the king took exception with me disrespecting our future sovereign and a lashing later, well I’ve definitely learned my lesson.”

He laughs again like it’s no big deal, like it’s nothing at all. He doesn’t mention his terror at the king’s ice cold fury, the pain like no other when the lash had struck him. He doesn’t mention how hard he’d cried nor Cato’s laughing taunts _(hah, what a girl you are, crybaby_ ) nor his mother’s harsh condemnations ( _stop snivelling, Finnick, these tears are disgraceful. You’re an embarrassment)_. He doesn’t mention Uncle Boggs’ rage at the king, the king’s threats should Boggs defy him or the violent guilt that had swarmed him at the thought of Uncle Boggs being harmed.

After all, he has learned his lesson.

( _respect, loyalty, duty. If you cannot follow these three principles, than there is no use for you, nor for those who would defend you)_

 _(remember that_ )

(he’ll never forget)

He chances a glance at Annie and she has her hands over her mouth, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He grins.

“Come on, weren’t we supposed to be swimming?”

He dives in before she can answer and she just watches him, her heart breaking down the middle.

(he doesn’t say a lot of things, but it doesn’t matter)

(Annie knows him, she always has)

* * *

 They spend three weeks together and fear looms over them, poisoning what could have been a happy visit. No matter how hard they try, they cannot forget what is going on in England, cannot forget the danger both Uncle Boggs and her father are in.

“It will be over soon, won’t it?” Annie asks quietly as they stand on the ramparts, looking out over the land, and Finnick swallows, a cold lump in his chest.

“I hope so,” he says and Annie takes his hand.

“Do they...do they really want to get rid of the King?” she whispers and it seems impossible that anyone would try anything of the sort. And yet...

“Maybe,” he murmurs and she inhales sharply.

“What does that mean for you?” she asks and he can feel her terror. He squeezes her hand and tries his best to smile.

“I should be fine. I’m pretty far down the line of succession.”

The wind picks up briefly, blowing her flowery scented hair in his face and she frowns.

“How? You’re the king’s nephew.”

“Yeah, but it’s a bit more complicated than that. He’s only really my half-uncle, remember? He and my dad share a mum, but not a father, and it’s my uncle’s father, King Henry IV that gives him his claim to the throne. So through my dad I’m the King’s nephew, but I’ve no claim to the English throne. I do have one to the French throne though. I think King Louis is my first cousin once removed.”

He tries to keep his tone light to smooth over her insecurities, but she continues to frown, concern bright in her eyes.

“But you do have a claim to the English throne?”

Finnick nods.

“Through my mother. She’s descended from Edward III, so I guess I am too. But Cato’s first in line, then the Duchess of Bedford, then your friend Madge, then the Portuguese royal family, then the Castilians, then me. After that I think it’s Uncle Boggs, the Duke of York and then the Duke of Buckingham. So yeah, I don’t think I’m much of a threat to anyone, unless the Duke of York wants to take over,” he jokes but Annie doesn’t laugh.

“He wouldn’t right? The Duke of York? Or the Duke of Buckingham?”

She sounds genuinely afraid and he tries to give her a comforting smile.

“Be a little difficult. He’s way down the list, think of how many people he’d have to get rid of. It’d be hard to justify a grab for the throne. Well...”

“Well what?” Annie asks and he shrugs.

“It’s just that he could I guess, but he wouldn’t I’m sure. I mean, Edward III had a lot of sons. His eldest Edward, his line’s died out. The King and me, we’re both descended from his third son John. The Duke of York is descended from both the second and fourth sons, so he could technically try and insist he has the better claim. But, Edward III’s will barred his second son’s line from inheriting. So I mean, they could say they have the better claim, but that’s only if you disregard Edward III’s will.”

“They could though, couldn’t they?”

He shrugs again.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t they have done it already? If they had the better claim, they always would have, so why wait until now?”

Annie bites her lip and then nods slowly. She hugs his arm.

“I’m sorry; I’m just worried is all. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Well, don’t worry. I’m a little too far down for anyone to care I think.”

Annie smiles and what he doesn’t say is that maybe he is in danger. He’s the king’s nephew, his title, his lands, his riches, they’re all gifts given by his uncle. No one will ever believe he’d stand against him. Everything he is, he owes to King Coriolanus, not to mention their close blood tie. No one hoping to seize the throne would ever trust him.

If they come for the King, they’ll be coming for him too.

* * *

 The rebellion is put down and for a moment at least, everything seems to go back to normal.

(if only if only if only)

* * *

That Christmas is more extravagant than any Annie can remember and she wonders if the King is trying to send a message. Rebels have tried to pull him down but here he is, standing taller than ever. Silk banners hang on every wall, gold and purple with red roses and the King’s crowned wolf stitched in with glittering thread. Garlands, wreaths and boughs of holly are everywhere while minstrels play in every room, dancing and singing through the halls. There are pageants, plays, hunts and tumblers to entertain them, acrobats and fire breathers and dancing girls in barely-there costumes. There is more food than she could ever describe, heaps of it on golden platters and wine fountains flow in every corner of the great hall, jewel encrusted goblets overflowing in every hand. There is a masque, great contests with showers of coins as a prize and endless dancing, even to the morning hours. It’s magnificent, truly, but it’s a little too much for Annie. Too loud, too crowded, too over the top. She thinks she’d prefer a quiet Christmas, one with only those she loved best.

Finnick is as glorious as he was last year and all the younger guests cluster around him, all of them wanting to bathe in his golden glow. Prince Cato glowers from the corner, seething with jealousy and only Clove Clifford seems to prefer his company to Finnick’s. Annie feels her heart warm at Finnick’s success and she’s glad they’ve all finally realized just how fantastic he really is (though his constantly improving looks may be helping too). He tells a joke and everybody laughs, little Darius practically in tears.

_I’m so happy for you Finnick_

Madge hasn’t come back this year and Annie can’t help but be disappointed. Still, she has Finnick when he can break away from his admirers and Henry too, so she can’t be too upset. The music swells and the King orders everyone to dance, people hurriedly finding partners before he unleashes his wrath upon them. Girls look at Finnick longingly but he walks right up to her, bowing low.

“Lady Anne?” he asks, a smile in his voice, and she can feel so many angry eyes on her.

“Of course, Earl Finnick,” she says and he grins, pulling her out into the middle of the dancers. She can feel the warmth of his hands even through her many layers and when he spins her, she can’t help but notice all the dirty looks directed her way.

“I think every girl here wants to dance with you,” she laughs, though she doesn’t really find it funny. Finnick shrugs.

“I’d rather dance with you,” he says simply, sweetly and Annie might be made of jelly. For a moment when they move around the floor, she forgets about jealous girls, about rebellions and wicked kings. There’s only she and Finnick, her Finnick.

Of course, every song ends and he kisses her hand when theirs does, a sparkly tingle travelling up her arm. Glimmer Mowbray practically throws herself at him for the next dance and he shoots Annie a grimace over her head. She giggles and then Henry is there, a determined look on his face.

“Finnick says you taught him to dance,” he says and she nods.

“Would you help me?” he asks and she blinks. “I know how, I’m just not sure I’m very good.”

“Of course,” she says but she can’t help being confused. He takes her hand and they move through the appropriate steps, his eyes focused on his feet.

“Why this sudden interest?” she asks and he doesn’t look up.

“My father says he’s trying to convince the Duke of Bedford to let me marry his daughter-”

“Madge?” she interrupts in shock and Henry shrugs.

“I guess. If the Duke of Bedford agrees, I want to be a good husband. Mother says a good husband is a good dancer.”

Annie tries to process this and feels surprise thick like syrup in her veins. _Lady Alma will be so disappointed if this works out_. Even still, Annie herself can’t help but be pleased. Henry and Madge are both nice, she’s sure they’ll make a lovely couple. And if Madge marries Henry, she can’t marry Finnick. Annie blushes.

They finish their dance and Henry looks at her in worry.

“So?” he asks and she smiles.

“I think you’re great. Madge will be very pleased, I’m sure.”

Henry grins.

“Great, thanks. I was thinking of getting her a present, do you think she’d like that?”

Annie nods. “Oh yes, I’m sure she would.”

Henry nods, still smiling and then Finnick sidles up beside her.

“Mead?” he offers, holding out a goblet and Annie takes a sip. It’s warm and spiced and she smiles.

“My favourite.”

“Of course,” he says and his fingers weave through hers.

“Henry might marry Madge,” she says and Finny grins as Henry nods in confirmation.

“I hope she likes to climb trees,” he teases and Henry looks absolutely horrified as he contemplates the fact that she might not. Annie giggles, Finnick bumps her shoulder and even with every problem in England, for now at least, she feels nothing but happy.

* * *

(it never lasts though)

(it can’t)

* * *

Goodbye always comes too soon.

Finnick holds her and she wraps her arms around his waist, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

“I hate saying goodbye,” she sighs and he nods.

“Me too. I’ll try and convince Uncle Boggs to let me visit before summer,” he says and her heart leaps at the possibility.

“Come along now, Anne,” her mother says sternly and she pulls away reluctantly. She touches his cheek softly.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers and he puts his hand over hers

“I’ll miss you too,” he says and kisses her palm. She feels a shiver travel throughout her body, her blood pumping suddenly faster.

“Anne,” her mother says sharply, a warning in her tone and Annie forces herself to walk away from him. She climbs up into the litter and leans out the window, watching him as they ride away.

_Oh Finnick, I wish we could stay together and never ever have to say goodbye._

* * *

_1468_

_September-October_

The invasion begins in September.

Bankrolled and with their numbers swelled by the Scots, two Lancastrian forces march into Northumberland, determined and hungry to retake it. Even King Coriolanus rides out with them, confident that he will soon see his enemies burning and bleeding before him. It is easy at first, towns and castles surrendering without a fight.

_I’m coming Annie_

And then the Yorkists come.

Marvel, Earl of Northumberland collides with one section of the army outside the town of Hexham and it is a bloodbath. He moves too quickly, catching the Lancastrians off guard and the entire right detachment flees into the town before a single blow is struck. The rest are left outmanned and with no room to manoeuvre. They are driven back into the Devil’s Water and slaughtered. Many drown, some are crushed as they try to climb the banks and escape but most are merely cut down, the river clogged with bodies and dyed red.

The army quickly surrenders, but pompous Marvel, that boy Finnick grew up beside, shows no mercy, executing over thirty of the leaders.

Finnick’s half of the army is caught at Hedgeley Moor by the Earl of Warwick. It starts out the same as every battle, archers exchanging arrows and Finnick forces himself to be calm.

_We can do this._

They can’t, as it turns out. The Lancastrian army collapses when the Yorkists slam into them and it is chaos, pure and simple. Finnick isn’t sure if he hears or imagines the command of _retreat_ in the carnage but soon everyone is fleeing the field, tripping over the corpses left behind. Finnick rides as hard as he can, not even tasting their defeat, not yet at least. For now all he can think of is survival.

(later he’ll hear that a few didn’t flee the battle and led by Sir Ralph Percy, they made a brave last stand)

(none survived)

And just like that, by the end of October, they are defeated.

Again.

* * *

_1464_

Rebellion comes again in the last week of March.

It flares up in Devonshire and Uncle Boggs has to go out and fight again, risking his life to keep the king on his throne. Finnick knows he is supposed to be strong, knows he’s too old to show fear or cry, but inside he is terrified.

_What will I do without you?_

Uncle Boggs squeezes his shoulder and Finnick grins, nothing but excited at this prospect of battle.

(he’s not allowed to be anything else)

“Would you like to pay the Countess of Oxford a visit? The Earl will be joining me against the rebels, but he says you are welcome to Canfield, should you like,” Uncle Boggs says and Finnick nods.

“Annie’s probably worried sick,” he says because she’s allowed to be and Finnick wonders if Uncle Boggs can tell that what he’s really saying is _I’m worried sick_. Uncle Boggs claps him on the back.

“Good man, look after her.”

(and what he’s really saying is _look after yourself_ )

“I will,” Finnick promises and he hates watching Uncle Boggs ride away, hates that he is too old now to be anything but brave.

( _these tears are disgraceful Finnick, you’re an embarrassment_ )

( _hah, what a girl you are_ )

( _men do not know fear and they do not weep like children_ )

* * *

He arrives at Great Canfield Castle on the first day of April, the rain finally, finally letting up.

It had been a long, long ride and he swings off his horse with aches in all of his muscles. He is sopping wet, cold to his bones and starving, but all of that vanishes the minute he sees Annie. She is waiting just inside the doors of the entrance hall, bouncing from foot to foot, and he grins, even his fear for Uncle Boggs taking a momentary break. He takes the front steps two at a time and she smiles at him, bright and sunny.

“Hullo Annie,” he says and her eyes shine.

“Good day, Earl Finnick,” she greets, her voice overly formal and she drops into a curtsy, one much too deep for an Earl. Finnick follows suit, removing his drenched hat and holding it over his heart.

“Greetings, Lady Anne,” he says and sweeps into a flourishing bow. They stay that way for only a moment before their laughter breaks out, all of Finnick’s tension just melting away. _I missed this._

“It’s good to see you,” he says and her cheeks turn a pretty pink. She looks him over and frowns.

“Oh Finnick, you’re soaked. Come, you must change or you’ll get sick.”

She takes him by the arm and practically marches him up to his room, puddles left behind in his wake. There are already servants there with some of his luggage and Annie flings open his trunk to riffle through for dry clothes. He grins.

“I am old enough to dress myself you know,” he teases and she pauses, her blush moving down her neck.

“Of course, yes, I know,” she mumbles and steps away, face hidden behind her hair. He laughs and walks over, squeezing her arm as he passes.

“What about this one?” he asks, holding out a blue doublet for her inspection. She nods and takes a tentative step closer.

“I think it would look very fetching with the white hose,” she says quietly, pointing at the hose squished in the corner of his trunk. He nods and he very much likes the idea of Annie thinking his attire fetching.

“Thanks,” he says and bumps her hip. The pink of her cheeks starts to darken and then she steps away again, moving back towards the door. Finnick pulls off his cloak and shakes it out, water droplets flying in every direction.

“Watch it!” Annie laughs, shielding her face with her hands and he grins in apology.

“Sorry, m’lady, I’m an absolute menace.”

“You are,” she agrees and he sticks out his tongue. She laughs, a sweet, happy sound that makes him feel very warm. He undoes his belt and her laughter starts to fade, her skin suddenly flushed.

“Mags wanted to know when you arrived, I’d best go and tell her,” she says quickly, her voice high and Finnick blinks. Before he can say a word she is gone, the door thudding shut behind her. Finnick stares at where she’d been and _that was odd, wasn’t it?_

_I wonder what’s gotten into her…_

* * *

His hair’s still damp when he comes down to eat and Annie won’t look at him, her face very red.

_I don’t get it, what did I do?_

There is something horribly cold in his stomach at the thought that he might’ve done something to upset her and he wishes he knew what it was so he could apologize. He sits across from her and she keeps her head down, her eyes focused on her plate. He feels anxiety roll over him in waves and _I’m sorry Annie, whatever it is, I’m really sorry._ Lady Mary arrives and the food comes out, but Finnick has barely any appetite.  He pokes at his supper and Lady Mary watches him with hawkish eyes, a general sense of disapproval wafting off of her. He’s old enough now to recognize that she’s never liked him and as much as that rankles, he’s much more concerned with Annie.

“Well,” Lady Mary says when they’re done, “time to get back to your embroidery Anne, don’t you think?”

Finnick feels something hard settle in his stomach.

“Oh,” he says, trying and failing not to sound disappointed, “I was hoping Lady Anne might join me for a round of cards.”

Lady Mary’s face sours and he knows she is about to refuse.

“What a lovely idea, after all, someone should entertain our guest,” Mags interjects helpfully and he can’t help but smile in her direction. She winks.

“Of course,” Annie mumbles, still not looking at him and Lady Mary can’t refuse now, it would be the height of rudeness. She gives him a poisonous look.

“Very well,” she says tightly and leaves, at least one weight falling off Finnick’s shoulders.

 _(though really, what’s her problem?_ )

Annie and Finnick sit across a little table from each other and Mags settles in the corner to sew. Finnick casts a glance at her and then leans over towards Annie as he deals.

“Annie-”

He never has the chance to say anything else, Annie quickly backing away from him, her chair scraping over the stone floor. Finnick blinks and honestly feels as if she’s punched him in the gut.

“Have I done something to offend you?” he whispers, though it might come out as more of a hiss. He winces at his own angry tone but can’t help feeling hurt. Annie covers her face in her hands and Finnick sits back down heavily in his chair. He glares at his cards. _What could I have possibly done to make her hate me so?_

(and if he’s angry, it’s only because he’s so afraid)

“Would you like to start, Lady Anne?” he asks stiffly and she doesn’t answer. He looks at her and she lowers her hands, carefully picking up her cards.

And then she throws them under the table.

Finnick’s eyes widen as he stares at her and her face is cherry red and burning.

“Oh no, I seem to have dropped my cards,” she says loudly, “would you help me pick them up, Lord Finnick?”

And then, before he can answer, she dives under the table.

_Has she gone insane?_

_Have I?_

He looks over at Mags but she doesn’t seem to have noticed anything odd. He looks back at the table and nearly jumps out of his seat when Annie grabs his ankle. He scoots back in alarm and she pops up between his legs.

“Come on,” she hisses and slides back under.

_I think she has gone insane_

_Oh hell_

Finnick slips under the table and Annie is on her hands and knees, her face still quite red. She rocks back to sit and he just stares at her.

“What’s going on?” he asks, perhaps a bit more annoyed sounding than he’d wanted and she grimaces.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what exactly?” he asks, and again, his voice is much colder than intended. If possible, Annie’s face seems to darken.

“Well, you…well it’s just…you took off your belt.”

Finnick stares at her.

“I don’t understand. I’ve changed in front of you plenty of times.”

“Yes, yes I know. But that was before. I’ll be thirteen soon, you’ll be fifteen. We’re old enough now to be married; you can’t exactly get naked in front of me,” she explains quickly and he can practically feel the heat from her face.

“I wouldn’t even have thought of it myself,” she hurries to continue, though he’s not so sure he believes her, “but Mother brought it up. She thinks it’s inappropriate how much time we spend together and oh, I’m so sorry, really. I couldn’t help but think of what she said when you took it off and I panicked, I’m so embarrassed. She’s worried you see, worried you might…well…” Annie trails off and despite the blush he can feel on his cheeks, a spurt of annoyance shoots off inside of him.

“She doesn’t trust me,” he says flatly and Annie winces. “She thinks if we are left alone I will attempt to rob you of your virtue. I’m not an animal, I’m not going to attack you,” he snaps and Annie reaches over to squeeze his hand.

“I know you wouldn’t, but she’d put all these thoughts in my head and the minute you took that belt off, well, I couldn’t help thinking of you…well, in ways I shouldn’t. I was mortified. I never thought for a moment you were going to do anything.”

He’s relieved to hear it, really, but there’s something else she’s said that catches his attention.

“Thinking of me?” he echoes and her eyes go very wide.

“No, I wasn’t-I mean, what I meant was...” she takes a deep breath, “I know nothing of the sort was going on, but no one would have believed us if they’d walked in. It’s not as if I was…imagining things.”

“Of course not,” he agrees and wonders why he feels so hot. And really, he’s not sure what she would imagine. He has only the vaguest idea what people might do without their clothes and he’s never given it much thought.

(though, after this, he’s definitely going to)

“I’m sorry,” she says again, “and if it helps, she doesn’t trust me either. She’s certain that should you ever attempt to rob me of my virtue, that I would…give it willingly,” she whispers, her eyes shyly turned to the floor and there’s something entirely unwelcome going on in his stomach. He clears his throat.

“It does help actually,” he says and Annie grins.

“Am I forgiven?” she asks and he rolls his eyes.

“Like I could ever stay mad at you.”

She beams, his stomach does that thing again, and he looks down at her scattered cards.

“Here,” he says, gathering them up, “this is why we’re under here, isn’t it?”

He goes to hand them to her only she’s moved forward to take them from him and suddenly their faces are very, very close. Her cheeks starts to flush and he thinks of everything she’d just told him and then everything her mother’d apparently said and he rockets backwards, his head cracking on the underside of the table. He falls back down with a loud curse, clutching at his head as it splits right through with pain. Tears immediately spring to his eyes but he forces them not to fall and Annie squeaks in shock.

“Finnick, oh Finnick, are you okay?”

She scuttles over to him and Mags hurries over, having heard all the commotion.

“What’s going on under here?” she demands and Finnick can’t answer, his teeth biting down on his lip to bottle up a cry of pain.

“He’s hurt himself,” Annie reports anxiously and Mags drags him out from under the table to examine him.

“You’ve cut yourself,” she says and Annie gasps, “I’ll have to go fetch something to fix it up.”

She hurries off and Annie comes up to his side, her hand rubbing his back.

“Does it hurt terribly?” she asks and what he wants to say is _yes, yes, yes_ , but he knows boys, _men_ do not wilt under pain.

“It’s fine,” he says instead even as those tears continue to burn in his eyes.

“You look like you’re about to cry,” she says and immediately he feels his defenses rise, his uncle’s accusing eyes boring into him.

_I won’t tolerate a disgrace in this family Finnick_

“I’m not about to cry, that’d be pathetic,” he says and he sounds so much like his uncle he wants to puke.

“Finnick…”

 “Boys don’t cry,” he tells her (and maybe himself) and she furrows her brow.

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t,” he snaps, his uncle swimming before his eyes, and then instantly regrets it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs and she frowns.

“You can cry as much as you like, I don’t think it’s pathetic,” she says firmly and he stares at her, waiting to see the lie in her eyes. But there’s none and he feels something odd in his chest. She means it, she really does, and she might be the only person in all the world who’d think him strong even if he cried. He swallows, the urge to cry now greater than ever (though for a completely different reason), but he knows he can’t. Annie may not hold it against him, but he knows everyone else would. They would call him weak, embarrassing, shameful. They already have.

(but still, it’s nice to know that if ever he is weak, at least Annie will not abandon him)

* * *

 Over the next few days, Finnick decides it might do them well to spend some time apart. They don’t avoid each other or anything, but he spends more time alone than he ever has during a visit with Annie. He hates it, he really does, but every time he’s with her, there’s something tight in is body, something uncomfortable. He pushes through it mostly, the thought of being without Annie too awful to contemplate, but he isn’t as glued to her he’d like to be.

_I hate this_

He goes to the river and even though it’s slightly chilly, he strips off his boots and hose to stick his feet in the water.

He could use the cool down.

He drops his head into his hands and groans, his whole body feeling hot. Why did Lady Mary have to think such awful things? _I feel like a deviant and I haven’t even done anything. Not that I would, I’m not a criminal. And what would we even do? Kiss I suppose and-_

“Finnick! Finnick! FINNICK!” Annie screams from behind him and for a moment Finnick is positive they are under attack. _The rebels have come to Canfield and they’re going to siege us._ Before he can sink too deep into terror, he turns to see Annie running towards him, her hair and gown streaming out behind her. She does not look frightened in the least, in fact, she looks jubilant. Her eyes are bright, her smile wide and Finnick jumps up from where he’d been sitting on the river’s edge.

“They’ve won! It’s over; father and Boggs are coming home!”

She flaps a letter at him and he starts to grin, relief nearly making him sway. _Thank the Lord._ Annie laughs and flings herself at him in her joy, her arms wrapping around his neck. He catches her and as happy as he is, he thinks to spin her around. He starts to, but as he’d just had his feet in the river, they’re slippery and wet and he very quickly loses his footing. His eyes widen in alarm and he shoves Annie from him as he falls, still desperately trying to find purchase on the wet grass. Annie shrieks, he shouts and then he lands with a splash, the water much colder all over him than it had been on his feet.  He swallows half the river and kicks for the surface, his clothes dragging around him.

“Finnick!” Annie yelps and then she’s down on her knees reaching for him. She grabs his arms and pulls, the both of them managing to haul him from the water. He flops over like a fish and coughs, Annie hovering by his side nervously.

“Oh Finnick,” she says as all the water he’d swallowed comes back up. She rubs his back and he starts to shiver.

“Ugh,” he manages.

“You’re freezing, we should get you inside,” she says and he nods, another shiver running over him. She helps him up and they both freeze in sudden horror.

He isn’t wearing any hose.

He’d taken them off to wet his feet and her mother’s concerns come racing back to him, the whole accusatory torrent. Annie’s eyes are round and focused on his bare legs, her cheeks dark and red. His face burns and he remembers how she’d jumped into his arms, remembers holding her tight. _I’m in my breeches, I held her while standing in my breeches. Oh God, I wasn’t wearing anything but my breeches_ (and his shirt of course, but that doesn’t seem to register through his profound horror). She whirls around quickly.

“I’ll go and have Mags make you something hot,” she offers, high pitched with embarrassment and he nods.

“Great, thanks,” he says and his voice is much higher too. He winces and she sets off, practically fleeing from him. _This is mortifying._ He looks about desperately for his hose and scrambles into them, nearly tipping himself back into the river in the process.

_Thank God her mother didn’t see that, she’d never forgive me_

_never_

* * *

Mags has a nice hot bowl of soup waiting for him after he changes into dry clothes and she is kind enough not to ask how he got himself so wet. Annie won’t look at him and he can’t really blame her. _Did I really hug her in my breeches? Her parents would skin me alive._

_Maybe I can’t be trusted._

Mags leaves them alone for a moment and he wishes she wouldn’t. _What am I supposed to say?_

“Thank you…for uh, pulling me out,” he mumbles around his spoon and Annie turns crimson.

“Oh no, it was my fault you fell in in the first place. I’m so sorry,” she says, fingers winding nervously through her hair.

“No, it was the spinning that did it and that was all me,” he says and then they fall into silence, his lack of hose just hanging between them. _Slippy feet, no hose and a dip in the river, it’s like a comedy of errors,_ he thinks sullenly. _How ridiculous_.

And really, it is ridiculous, so ridiculous in fact that he starts to laugh. He can just picture himself flailing about in the river in his underthings and God, what an absolute lunatic he must have looked like. Annie stares at him for a moment as if he’s lost his mind and he thinks of her red face and how she actually ran from him and he laughs all the more, so hard he nearly chokes on his soup. Annie bites her lip and then she nods, laughter starting to spill from her lips. Soon, she is laughing as hard as he is, clutching at her stomach and what a pair they make, two fools if ever there were any.

And that’s how Mags finds them, sitting in the kitchen laughing themselves to tears. She doesn’t bother to ask why; she just leans on the door and smiles.

They are ridiculous, the both of them, but she’s not sure she’s ever loved anyone more.

* * *

Finnick is beyond excited to go home and see Uncle Boggs, but that doesn’t make goodbye any easier. In fact, every goodbye with Annie seems harder than the last.

Mags packs him more food than he’ll ever need for the journey back to Wales and Lady Mary glares at him as if she expects him to try and ravish Annie right there in the dirt, but he barely notices.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, both her hands held in his. She turns that pretty shade of pink again and that strange something happens in his stomach. He ignores it and grins.

“Even if you did push me in the river,” he teases and she laughs.

“And here I was thinking you were a gentleman, taking all the blame yourself. I guess I was wrong.”

“I guess you were.”

They smile at each other and he wishes he could just take her home with him, though he knows Lady Mary would never allow it. She’d probably assume he meant to defile her. As if on cue, she clears her throat.

“I am sure Lord Boggs is eager to see you,” Lady Mary says pointedly and Finnick barely restrains his sigh. He forgets about Lady Mary and focuses instead on Annie, giving her his best grin. He squeezes her hands and presses a kiss to back of each one.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises and she nods.

“Very soon.”

There’s a stray hair fluttering by her cheek that he’d love to tuck behind her ear, but with Lady Mary still looking at him like he has the plague, perhaps he shouldn’t. He climbs on his horse instead and _I wish we never had to say goodbye._ He spares one last look at Annie before he rides off and she is waving, her smile bright and lovely.

He tucks that smile in his heart and carries it with him all the way to Wales.

* * *

Finnick does not throw himself on Uncle Boggs like he wants to, nor does he tell him how absolutely thrilled he is that he made it. The king would never approve so instead he drinks in the sight of his uncle, a happy hum in his heart.

“What happened?” he asks, excitement warming his voice but Uncle Boggs doesn’t smile. His eyes are grim as he drops a heavy hand on Finnick’s shoulder and fear, sudden and ice cold, starts to bloom inside him.

_What? What is it?_

* * *

(Uncle Boggs makes it home safe and whole, but not everyone is so fortunate)

(Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon, fourteen years old and always good for a laugh, dies on the battlefield, a rebel sword slicing through him from shoulder to hip)

(Finnick swore he’d be strong, promised himself and the king that he wouldn’t cry or ever show weakness, but he does that night)

(he finds the tallest tree he can out on the grounds and sobs beneath it, can almost imagine Henry in the branches above him)

( _this isn’t fair, this isn’t right_ )

(and how sad then, that this is the England he has sworn to defend)

* * *

In the months that follow Henry’s death, Finnick buries the boy he used to be.

He will be strong and brave, unwavering, unflinching. He trains every day, until sweat coats his skin and his muscles ache. He will be the best rider, the best swordsman, the best jouster. He ends his days cut and bruised, but he is back out the next day, determined and driven.

“You needn’t push yourself so far,” Uncle Boggs tells him, a current of worry in his voice, but Finnick pushes himself even harder. The rebels who killed Henry must be stopped, the instability in England ended and most important of all, his uncle must be appeased.

King Coriolanus has made it very clear that he expects Finnick to be ruthless and devastating on the battlefield, loyal, unquestioning and without fear.

_It is your duty to fight for us, here in England or in the homes of our enemies._

He expects Finnick to smile, laugh and charm, but never to show true affection, to never get caught up in feelings or emotions.

_You must win them, but never let them win you. Charming on the outside, hard on the inside._

Finnick knows what he has to do.

_A man like that, he might keep those he cares for safe. Any other kind, well, tragedies are known to happen._

(but maybe, just maybe, the old Finnick, the boy he used to be, isn’t quite so dead)

( _you can cry as much as you like, I don’t think it’s pathetic_ )

(maybe he’s just hiding, wrapped up in a shell, and waiting for when it’s safe to come out)

* * *

 _1468_  
_October-November_

Their failed invasion not only costs them England, but everything else as well.

The King is captured by the Yorkists and James of Scotland decides he has backed the wrong horse. He is kind enough to let them leave rather than handing them directly over to the Yorkists, but still, they are driven from yet another kingdom. Enobaria takes command with her favourite Brutus, Duke of Somerset beside her and orders them to make for France and her cousin King Louis. They have no choice but to do so, but now they are kingless and headed even farther away from their goal. And if King Louis turns them away...

Finnick watches the coast recede and there is a hopelessness in him, one he cannot fight down. Uncle Boggs rests a comforting hand on his shoulder but it does little good. He has never truly believed in the Lancastrian cause, nor does he support the Yorkist usurpers. His uncle is evil, purely, entirely but he sees nothing in the Yorkists except ambitious, greedy liars willing to plunge the country into war to win themselves a crown. In his mind, neither side is right. He’d fought for the King because he’d sworn loyalty to him and because he’d known he had no other choice. His uncle would never allow him to sit out the conflict, the Yorkists would never have trusted him (not that he’d ever have joined then anyway) and _what good_ , he’d asked himself, _would my dying do anyone?_ Because that’s what would have happened had he done anything other than ride to war for his uncle, a gruesome painful death. He’d wanted a quick end to the war, safety for his loved ones and maybe, maybe his uncle would be humbled by this threat, maybe he would learn to be kinder.

Now, sailing even farther away from Annie and home, he begins to think he might’ve been better off standing his ground and denouncing his uncle. At least then he would have died defying evil, now he’ll spend his whole life fighting to win it back its crown.

_Forgive me Annie_

He fingers the chain around his neck and kisses the ring on the end, one his hands had outgrown long ago. It is gold with one solitary pearl and it is all he has left of her, his countess, his Annie, the other half of his heart.

_I don’t know how, but I’ll find my way back to you_

_I swear Annie, we’ll be together again_

_some day_


	8. a lullaby from the sea part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe, one day, they will spend more time together than they do apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took me way longer than I wanted it to, but it’s done! Next up we get back to the main story with part two: the thorns of lancaster! Also, the end of this chapter has some smuttiness and it’s my first time writing anything of the sort, so please be kind. I hope you enjoy!

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_interlude_  
 _a lullaby from the sea_  
 _part two of two_  
 _moon dust_

_1464_

Mary, Countess of Oxford, is dead.

It is the last week of June, one beset with thunderstorms, and she miscarries her latest baby. Annie kneels in the chapel all night, rosary beads wrapped around her fingers, but it does no good.

Her prayers aren’t answered.

It is sometime past two in the morning when a midwife with red rimmed eyes comes to tell her the news and Annie looks at her hands as she wrings them. There is blood beneath her nails, dark and almost brown, and Annie pukes right there on the altar. Mags holds her as she retches and for a moment, just one, Annie wishes she was dead.

Mags half carries her up to her mother’s room and it isn’t that she’s ever been close with her mother, quite the opposite, but it still feels like there’s a hole in her as she kneels by her mother’s bloody bedside, like someone has stuck a shovel in her chest and carried away a chunk of her. Her mother’s skin is ghastly pale, almost gray, and Annie cannot stop her tears, no matter how hard she tries.

“Oh Mary,” her father says in a pitying tone, shaking his head. He sighs heavily and gently touches her hair, but then a midwife passes by, a lump of bloody blankets in her hands. There is a half-finished baby in there, a sibling Annie will never meet and _why? Why did this happen? Why?_ Annie buries her face in her hands, that chasm inside of her so wide she is sure it will swallow her whole.

_Why?_

Her father is dry eyed over his wife of fifteen years, but this lost child brings tears to his eyes, truly makes him mourn. He weeps over it, another potential heir, and Annie knows her parents never loved each other, but today at least, she wishes her father would at least pretend.

He doesn’t.

* * *

Finnick finds her in the chapel, her knees cold and aching from hours of prayer for her mother’s soul. The candles she’d lit have mostly burned out, making the room dim and smoky and he falls to his knees beside her.

“Oh Annie, I came as soon as I heard. I’m so sorry,” he whispers and she opens her eyes to the gloom. She feels oddly detached as his arm comes around her shoulders, the familiar weight of it not nearly as comforting as it should be.

“What can I do?” he asks and she cannot look at him, a great empty hole widening inside of her.

“He didn’t cry for her,” she whispers and _would he have cried for me?_

(she hates herself as soon as she thinks it, but still, she cannot help but wonder)

“What do you mean? Who didn’t?” Finnick asks, squeezing her shoulders and she feels so cold inside, like she’s made of ice.

“Father, he didn’t cry for her. Fifteen years and he didn’t cry.”

She can see Finnick from the corner of her eye, his face stricken.

“Annie…”

“I don’t think she would have cried for him either. Fifteen years they were together and they never…they never cared. Do you think…do you think we’ll become like them? Not caring at all, only together to make an heir?” she asks and still she feels lifeless, empty, her mother taking a chunk of her to the grave. Finnick shakes his head.

“Never,” he swears and she doesn’t believe it for a minute.

“Maybe that’s what growing up really means, you become your parents.”

“No,” he says fiercely and he turns her around, hands firm on her shoulders. “We won’t be them Annie, I know it. You cried for your mother didn’t you?”

She nods.

“See, you’re already different from them. Your parents, my parents, they never loved each other; they didn’t care to start with. They only got married because they had to, for wealth and heirs and whatever else. And sometimes I guess that works out and they can grow to care and sometimes they don’t, but it doesn’t matter. I already care about you Annie, I always will.”

She looks at him, a flicker of flame in her frozen heart and she wants to believe him, oh how she wants to believe him. He swallows.

“You…you mean the world to me Annie and I want you in my life…forever. And not for money, or land, or heirs but because I…We won’t be them Annie, we’ll be happy. I promise we’ll be happy.”

His voice is strong and confident, his words sure and Annie leans her head into his chest. She closes her eyes and Finnick holds her, his hug nice and warm and comforting. She starts to cry, an aching grief nearly overwhelming her. She and her mother had never been close and now they never will be, and it _hurts_ , God it hurts. Sniffles come first and then great heaving sobs but Finnick doesn’t pull away, he just holds her a little tighter, his voice soothing as he whispers in her ear.

“It’s okay Annie, it’ll be okay. I’m here, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. We’ll be okay, I promise.”

_Oh Finnick, Finnick, you are the very best friend I’ve ever had. What would I ever do without you?_

And because death has just come to Canfield, she clings to him all the more.

( _do not leave me Finnick, oh please don’t leave me_ )

* * *

That night, for the first time in years, Annie takes Lizbet down from her shelf.

She buries them both beneath the blankets and weeps into Lizbet, her tears staining the pretty silk of her gown.

(a gown made by her mother when she was younger, kinder and swollen with the first of so many lost sons)

Just like when she was a child, Annie shatters with Lizbet as her only comfort, a pretty poppet to soak up all her sorrows.

(and it’s wrong, isn’t it, that all night all she can hear is her mother saying

_stop that anne, ladies do not play with poppets_ )

* * *

Annie hates watching him leave, but the King has summoned he and Boggs, so off they go.

It feels as if a shroud has fallen over Great Canfield, gray and heavy and full of cobwebs. She feels lethargic, lonely and her father barely looks at her, but then, that isn’t new, is it? Boggs and her father shake hands and Finnick comes up to her, his eyes sad and lacking their usual glow. He takes her hand and squeezes it, his thumb running over her knuckles.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises and she nods, cannot manage anything more. He frowns unhappily and she wishes she could say something, but she has no idea what. Her heart feels shriveled and dried up in her chest, nothing but a husk.

“I’ll write every day, Countess Annie,” he says with a bit of a grin and quite against her will, a small smile flitters over her lips. He kisses her hand and a well of fondness springs up inside of her, breathing life back into her hollow heart.

“I look forward to it Earl Finny,” she answers and it hurts still, the loss of her mother, the stark realization of the limits of her parents’ love, but when Finnick smiles like that, well, it hurts a little less.

_At least I’ll always have you, Finnick-my-Finnick_

Mags wraps an arm around her shoulders as Finnick and Boggs ride away, her care sinking into Annie’s skin and softening some of the rough edges she’d felt inside. _I’m not alone, not really_ , she thinks as Finnick turns in his saddle to wave and Mags kisses her head. _I’ve got all I need right here._

* * *

There are no Christmas festivities this year, the country too unstable with rebellion to make for safe travel. Finnick celebrates with Uncle Boggs and wishes Annie could be here too, his two favourite people together. Instead he has to content himself with writing every day, trying to give her so many details she’ll feel like she was here the whole time. He thinks of her all alone at Hedingham, still mourning her mother and thanks God she has Mags.

_At least she has someone with her who loves her,_ he thinks and he wishes so terribly that he could be there. He keeps seeing her face as he’d rode away, so miserable and broken.

_Oh Annie._

Finnick sighs and writes to her again, filling his letter with as many jokes as he can. He hates thinking of her sad, hates that he can’t be there to try and make her feel better. What good is he if he can’t be there when she needs him most? She’s his best friend, his Annie and the thought of her upset eats away at him.

Uncle Boggs says it’s too dangerous to send her her New Year’s present so he’ll have to keep it until they see each other again and he prays that’s sooner rather than later. He’s fifteen now but he remembers being eight and watching her litter take her away for their first goodbye (second technically, but they weren’t really friends the first time around) and he feels ten times more awful now than he did then.

_I’ll see you soon Annie, I promise_

_(i hope)_

* * *

_1468_

_December_

Their Christmas in France is a cold one.

King Louis is sympathetic to their plight but he makes one thing very clear. He will not help them regain England. He will house them, feed them but that will be the extent of his generosity. Finnick watches his aunt barely contain her rage, her eyes nearly bulging with fury. Enobaria can’t argue of course, they cannot afford to alienate King Louis. If he casts them out, they will have nowhere left to turn. Worse, if he should decide to hand them over to the Yokists...

Still, Finnick knows enough of Enobaria to know she won’t accept defeat. The war won’t end until she’s dead and even after her; there’s Cato, who will never surrender his birthright. Finnick stands in the French court in those waning days of 1468 and knows this will always be his life. Exile and invasions and the terror of betrayal at every moment.

Finnick has never been the most religious of people (much to his mother’s consternation), but he finds himself praying every night to a God he’s still not sure he fully believes in.

_I’ll do anything; anything, just let me see Annie again._

He means that, would crawl through Hell itself for one last moment with her. He doesn’t care how many wars he has to fight, how much hardship lies before him, if he just knew she was safe he thinks he could survive anything.

_Please, let her be alright_

* * *

_1464-1465_

It is a year, one whole year, that they do not see each other.

The kingdom isn’t safe, far too unstable for travel and they both count every single day they’re apart.

(392, to be exact)

Annie’s heart is still sore over those many days but with Finnick’s letters, Mags’ love and time, she slowly starts to heal. Will the pain ever truly disappear? _Probably not_ she is forced to admit, but it softens until happiness can thrive inside her yet again.

( _we won’t be like them, we’ll be better_ )

_(_ but still, a small voice inside her whispers, _I miss you mother, would you’ve missed me?)_

Finnick becomes more and more the man his uncle wants him to be, handsome, charming, and skilled in the arts of war. Even his mother cannot hide her admiration of who he’s growing into and Finnick takes heart in that, he really does.

(but that doesn’t mean Finny’s not still in there, clinging on for dear life)

(everyone else might now look on him with pride, but Finnick can’t manage to feel the same)

( _what’s wrong with me? why can’t I just be myself?_ )

They write as often as they can, but that’s not enough.

And then finally, 392 days later, they see each other again.

* * *

She and her father arrive at Dunstanburgh at the end of July and Annie feels a sense of comfort as soon as she takes her first breath of sea air. The castle is outlined by the sky, the air carries the scent of the ocean and never has she felt more at home then she does right here.

“Annie!”

She turns in her saddle and feels her eyes widen, her chest tightening. Finnick is heading towards her and she feels breathless at the sight of him. She’s missed him, missed him so much and it hits her fully then just how much, her entire body aching with the need to touch him. It’s almost overwhelming, the great rush of emotion inside of her and yet she feels whole now, like there’s an empty space inside of her only he can fill.

_Oh Finnick, oh my Finnick_

Of course, as soon as that first hurricane of feeling begins to abate within her, she starts to notice him, all of him, her heart thudding loudly in her chest. He is taller yet again, his chest broader and his hair seems to actually shine in the sunlight. Her eyes rove over every inch of him and she feels almost stunned by how absolutely _beautiful_ he is. Every time she sees him he seems to have gotten even more handsome and every time it hits her like a stone wall. The cut of his jaw should be impossible, his skin is golden and her eyes drift down to his shapely legs and her face burns like it’s been set on fire. He grins with perfect teeth and her stomach swoops, a great wave of heat crashing over her.

“Oh, I’ve missed you Annie,” he says and lifts her down from her horse. Her skin prickles beneath her gown and she just looks at him, drinking him in with her eyes.

“I’ve missed you too,” she says and he smiles, her stomach flipping over yet again.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says and her eyes widen. He grins again, her legs feeling a bit like pudding, and takes her hand, winding his fingers through hers. Her father and Boggs talk amongst themselves and neither one of them seems to notice as Finnick leads her off, though Mags watches them with the careful raise of an eyebrow. They slip through the doors into the great hall and as soon as they’re out of sight of everyone else, Finnick turns and pulls Annie into a hug. He holds her tightly and her eyes go wide for a moment before she sinks happily into his embrace.

“I’ve hated being away from you for so long,” he whispers and she nods, keeping her arms snug around him.

“It was too long, let’s never do that again,” she says and he laughs. He pulls away to look at her and she smiles as he tucks a stray hair behind her ear.

“Agreed. Now come on, I do have a surprise for you.”

They start off again and she stays wrapped around his arm, a gentle sort of happiness warming her blood. He brings her up to her room and sitting right in the middle of the bed is a pretty little box. She looks up at him in question and he just grins.

“Go on,” he says, “open it.”

She walks over and carefully picks it up, glancing back over her shoulder at him as she does. He looks nervous, maybe anxious, and she carefully lifts the lid.

“It was supposed to be your new year’s gift, but I never had the chance to give it to you,” he says and she inhales deeply. It is a bracelet, one made of seashells and pretty glass. She looks at him and he comes closer, his smile sweet and still a little anxious.

“I made it myself; you always said you loved it here, so I wanted you to have a piece of it you could take with you anywhere. Do you like it?”

Annie stares at him for a moment, tears threatening to spill over. She presses a hand to her mouth, he bites his lip and then she throws herself on him, her arms clutching him tight. He hugs her reflexively and she buries her face in his shoulder, the smell of him sweet and soothing.

“I love it; I think it’s the best present I’ve ever gotten,” she murmurs into his neck and he lifts her briefly off her feet. He sets her down and she wipes her eyes before holding the box out to him.

“Put it on me?” she asks and he nods, a relieved happiness glowing in his face. He fastens it on her wrist and his fingers linger there for a moment, her skin heating under his touch. His hand slides up her arm and then down again, stroking her softly and she finds herself looking into his eyes, and still, she could never hope to put their colour into words. She feels...she’s not sure how she feels but there is something happening inside of her, something... _too much_.

“And to think I forgot to get you something and your birthday’s coming up,” she laughs, needing to break their eye contact and he just grins.

“I know what I want actually,” he says. “I have exciting news.”

His eyes shine, he smiles widely and for one horrifying moment, she is honestly convinced he is going to announce his engagement to Madge. She sits down heavily on the bed.

“Oh?” she asks, her attempt to sound normal failing entirely. He beams and sits beside her, squeezing her hand between both of his.

“Two days after my birthday there’s going to be a tournament in London.”

Annie actually slumps in relief.

“Really?” she asks and he nods eagerly.

“Since I’ll be sixteen, the King thinks I’ll be old enough to participate. It won’t be too large, but they’ll still be a lot of nobles there and he’s made it pretty clear he expects me to win.”

“I’m sure you will,” she says and he grins, “but what does that have to do with a birthday gift?”

“I want you,” he says and Annie’s eyes stretch as wide as they can go, her heart actually stopping in her chest, “to come, I need you to come. My uncle wants me to win but there’s no way I could if you’re not there to cheer me on. That’s what I want, you there. I can’t do it without you.”

Annie starts to breathe again and her face flames red.

“Oh...oh, of course! I’ll make sure father lets me come.”

Finnick beams and then pulls her close again, his arms holding her up against his chest.

“Thank you Annie. I feel like when you’re there, I can do anything.”

Annie feels her heart gallop in her chest and almost says, _don’t say things like that, don’t hold me like this_ but doesn’t.

(because if she’s being entirely, totally honest, she loves being in his arms, loves his touch and all his words, sweet and lovely and heart pounding. She loves-)

“I have to show you something!” he says suddenly and bounces up to his feet. “I’ll be right back!”

He runs off and as soon as he’s gone from sight, Annie collapses back onto the bed. Finnick is handsome, too handsome, but what’s so much worse is his sweetness, his loveliness, his perfect Finnickness. She feels almost like a fly caught on a web, except she doesn’t want to break free. She wants-

 “Here, look at this,” he says as he comes back in and Annie sits up quickly, her cheeks stained with embarrassment. He’s holding some sort of sketch and she frowns.

“Is that a dragon?” she asks and he shakes his head, his smile growing. He sits down next to her, his thigh pressed against hers and her blood pounds inside of her.

“A wyvern,” he explains, “see, it has no front legs, just wings.”

She nods.

“Alright, and what is it?”

“My new badge. I’m going to be in a tournament, so I decided it was high time I had my own heraldry badge. I’ve even started designing my own coat of arms.”

Annie claps her hands together.

“Ooo, what does it mean?”

“Valour and protection. And it’s silver, which means truth, sincerity, peace, innocence and purity,” he rattles off proudly and Annie smiles.

“I love it. What made you choose a wyvern over everything else?”

He bites his lip and fidgets slightly, a hint of nervousness slipping over his face.

“I like the meaning and...well it’s sort of like a dragon, right? So I thought...well, I could honour my Welshness with it. You really like it?”

“I do,” she says and touches his cheek, “and I know your grandfather would too.”

He smiles softly.

“He always taught me to be proud of my Welsh blood, even if everyone else thought it lesser than my English blood. I just wanted to show him that I do. I am proud to be Welsh and to be his grandson.”

“He knows, I’m sure he does.”

Finnick puts his hand over hers on his cheek and squeezes.

“I’m thinking of incorporating some fleur-de-lis in my coat of arms in honour of my grandmother too. I may not have met her, but she sounds amazing.”

“That sounds perfect,” Annie says and they share a smile.

“I just have to figure out a motto now,” he laughs and Annie has the very strong, strange urge to kiss him.

“Well, I suppose I’d better go,” he says, standing up, “before any rumours start as to what I’m doing in here.”

He wiggles his eyebrows, Annie laughs and he moves to the door, only to turn abruptly and walk back over to her. He hesitates for a moment and then kisses her forehead, warmth flooding from his lips through her whole body.

“I am happy you’re here Annie, I’m always happiest when you’re here.”

He leaves before she can say anything and she falls backwards again, the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding whooshing out of her. She can feel her heart beating against her ribs and _I’m doomed_.

(but maybe, just maybe, she isn’t the only one)

* * *

Finnick has to train everyday to make sure he’s ready for the tournament in September and Annie brings her reading or embroidery or whatever else she’s meant to be doing outside so she can watch. She isn’t really meant to be watching, but she can’t help herself. He is magnificent, whether he’s riding around on a horse with a lance or sparring with a sword against Boggs and Annie is completely ensnared.

He always loses his shirt somewhere in the middle of his practising and he is positively stunning, all those very toned muscles she’d felt when he hugged her glistening a bit in the sun. She ogles quite shamelessly but he never seems to mind, shooting her a wink when he notices. Her heart flutters and then he always does something extra flourishy just to show off.

“He’s like a peacock,” Mags snorts and Annie can’t help but laugh, though she still can’t look away. _He’s beautiful_ she muses and she’s sure no one could ever deny it. But the best part, the very best part, is that it’s not just on the outside.

Her Finnick’s even lovelier on the inside.

* * *

At fourteen, Annie knows she can’t go swimming with Finnick like she used to, it would be entirely, completely inappropriate. They’re too old for that now but she misses it, the castle’s meres beckoning to her like siren calls. There are good things about growing up certainly, but still, there will always be a part of her that yearns to be a child again, never hemmed in by manners and polite society.

_oh to be wild and free once more_

She finds herself wandering by the water’s edge as often as she can, even though she knows she’ll never have a chance to dive inside. Even without Finnick, she could never go alone; it would never do for a proper lady to frolic about in lakes.

_maybe you’re half-fish_ , Finnick had teased when they were young and _maybe you are too_ , she’d countered. _Maybe we both are_ , she thinks wistfully and there’s something about the weightlessness of floating that had always made her feel invincible.

“Oh Annie, I didn’t see you there.”

It’s Finnick, shirtless again and wet as he sits at the edge of the mere, wet enough that he must’ve just finished a swim of his own. For a brief moment she is jealous, because it isn’t fair that boys have so much more freedom but then those feelings of injustice fade as she stares at him, the water on all his lovely muscles making him sparkle. Quite inappropriately, she wants to reach out and touch his golden skin, to feel its warmth beneath her hand and even more shockingly, she wants to press her lips to one of his shoulders. _He always smells of salty sea breezes, I wonder if he tastes the same…_

Annie is instantly mortified, her mother’s disapproving scowl filling her mind. Her skin begins to burn and she swallows, hoping against hope that he cannot see her embarrassment.

“Hello,” she manages and almost cringes. _Could you be any more awkward?_ He just grins and stands, picking up his discarded shirt and she watches him pull it on, her blood heating. She shakes her head and forces herself to focus on the chain around his neck instead. He’s been wearing it for years, a little ring on the end, but she’s never given it much thought. First she was too young to care, then she was too busy being distracted by the changes he’d undergone, but this time, for the first time, she actually looks at that ring and recognizes it. She gasps.

“Is that…is that my ring?” she asks and he pulls the shirt all the way on, his cheeks slightly pink.

“Uhh, yeah. It doesn’t fit my fingers anymore,” he says with an embarrassed sort of laugh and her heart shakes.

“You didn’t have to keep wearing it,” she almost whispers and he shrugs, scooping up his doublet.

“It’s the first thing you ever gave me, I like wearing it. It’s like…having a piece of you with me everywhere I go.”

He doesn’t look at her as he says it and she covers her mouth with her hands, the sudden urge to cry nearly overwhelming her.

“Finnick, I-”

“Dinner!” Mags calls from somewhere behind her and Finnick ruffles his hair.

“We’d best be off, wouldn’t want to make Mags angry,” he laughs and he offers her his arm. He smiles and Annie inhales wetly, emotions surging furiously within her. She takes his arm and looks up at him as he leads her inside, those tears threatening to fall yet again. She leans up quickly and kisses his cheek, his whole body stiffening for a moment. She hugs his arm and leans her head on his shoulder, her heart filled to the brim with him.

_I think I love you Finnick Odair_

_No, I know I do_

* * *

The tournament is held on a warm September day, the golden sun burning happily overhead. The sky is blue and cloudless, the grass a luscious green and Eltham’s tiltyard is done up in grand style, from flowered garlands to the King’s banners fluttering from the stands. A faint breeze tickles the hair at the back of Finnick’s neck and admittedly, this tournament is no nowhere near as big or well attended as all those he had witnessed as a boy, but still, there is a definite air of magic to it. The stands are filled with lords and ladies from all over England, their jewels twinkling in the sunlight and the royal family sits under their silken canopy, the scent of rich foods wafting down from their box. Servers move through the spectators with refreshments, a bard keeps everyone entertained before the tournament’s start and it feels almost dreamlike as Finnick gazes around in wonder, his heart pounding in his chest. He remembers being young and enamored of all the brave men in armour, and here he is, about to be one of them himself.

_Any moment now…_

The bard finishes with a bow to raucous applause and a horn sounds, summoning all the participants out to the field. Finnick takes a deep breath and rides out with the others, his armour shined until it gleams. People throw flowers down on them, the men move off to beg a favour from their preferred lady and Finnick looks around anxiously, a knot in his stomach. It dissipates immediately when he finds Annie, her cheeks rosy and her smile blinding. He trots over and she is dazzling, golden lights shining in her lovely dark hair and her ocean eyes captivating. She has her hands clasped beneath her chin and he cannot help but smile, all his worries melting away. His uncle has made it clear he expects great things and with Annie here, Finnick feels like he can do anything at all.

A hand sticks out suddenly from the stands, pale and finely manicured with a lace handkerchief clutched in its fingers, and Finnick has to duck to avoid getting it in the face. After he’s passed beneath it, he straightens and up and twists around. It is Glimmer Mowbray’s hand, her long lashes fluttering at him as she smiles and Finnick feels his stomach clench. _Oh no_. He does not want her favour, but if he turns her down, she will certainly be insulted. Worse, his uncle will surely be furious, after all, if Finnick slights Glimmer her father may take offense, and in England’s current climate, the king certainly can’t afford to alienate a man as powerful as the Duke of Norfolk.

_What do I do?_

Annie is but a few feet away, her pretty eyes swimming through his mind and as much as it may cost him, he knows what he has to do. He smiles at Glimmer with as much brilliance as he can manage, tosses her a wink to soften his rejection and then trots quickly over to Annie, hoping against hope that Glimmer won’t be too upset. She swoons a bit along with the women around her and perhaps no one else noticed what happened, perhaps she will not breathe a word of it to anyone. There are plenty of knights who would gladly carry her favour, perhaps she will not be too cross with him for preferring Annie.

(he isn’t holding his breath)

He finally reaches Annie and again he is struck by her, her pretty smile making his heart flip over in his chest.

“I would be most honoured Lady Anne if you would grant me your favour,” he says with a grin and she beams, carefully untying a ribbon from her hair. He holds out his lance and she knots the ribbon around it, a surge of confidence flooding through his veins.

“I wish you the best of luck Lord Finnick,” she says and he winks, her face turning a lovely red.

“I’ll make you proud,” he promises and he feels so much braver with Annie here, almost invincible. He rides back over to the centre of the field to join the other men and they salute their king before filing out. A squire brings his helmet, servants rush about preparing for the skill test that will kick off the event and _this is it_ , he thinks; _let’s show the world what I can do._

His uncle has allowed for only one skill test, not wanting anyone to become bored. Each competitor will be expected to charge full speed at a metal ring suspended by a string, attempting to skewer it with their lance. Any who miss will be eliminated and after each round the ring will be adjusted to be made more and more difficult until there is only one man remaining. Brutus of Somerset is the favourite but Finnick knows he has a chance, not only has he been practising endlessly, but Annie is here, her strength flooding through him.

_I can do this Annie, I know I can_

He waits anxiously behind Baron Hungerford for his turn, fidgeting restlessly in his saddle. _Come on, come on._ It seems to take ages and when it’s finally his turn, Finnick feels almost like he might burst. His pulls on his helmet and spares one last look at the crowd, heart pounding in his chest. The King looks almost bored but his eyes are narrowed dangerously, Cato sulks beside him and then Finnick swings his gaze across the field to Annie, her teeth biting into her lip and her hands clasped beneath her chin. He feels suddenly braver and slaps down his visor, excitement thrumming in his blood.

_Let’s do this_

His horse Triton surges forward and Finnick readies his lance, knowing he only has one shot. _Don’t mess it up, don’t you dare_. He holds his breath and only exhales it as the crowd bursts into applause. He lifts up his lance, the metal ring glinting around it. He tips his visor up to smile at everyone, his eyes automatically finding Annie. _The sun_ , he thinks a little dreamily, _pales in comparison to her._ He rejoins the others and the competition continues, knights and lords eliminated until only Finnick and Brutus remain. They go three rounds without either of them missing the ring and finally the king stands, an immediate hush falling over everyone.

“One more round and then we will celebrate our victor.”

His eyes on Finnick are sharp and he knows what they’re saying. _Don’t lose_. The ring is smaller now, higher and off at an odd angle and Finnick can feel sweat all over him as he waits for Brutus to have his turn. The duke thunders forward and Finnick holds his breath, flinching at the clang of metal on metal. The tip of Brutus’ spear catches the edge of the ring but cannot make it through the center, the stands gasping as one. Finnick inhales deeply. _All I need to do now is get it in and I win._

Brutus rides back over with a vicious scowl, directing it at Finnick as if he is somehow at fault for his failure, but Finnick ignores it. He has to concentrate. He looks at Annie’s pretty ribbon on his lance, thinks of her ring against his chest and nods.

_Alright, let’s win this_

Triton rushes forward, Finnick aims as best he can and _victory_ , he thinks, _is the sweetest feeling of all._ He skewers the ring perfectly and everyone leaps to their feet, clapping, hollering and stamping their boots. Finnick laughs with joy and lifts his visor, waving happily at his adoring fans. They shower him with flowers, scraps of lace and ribbons and he finds Annie, her hands cupped around her mouth as she shouts to him. He cannot hear her words but he does not need to, he can feel them burning hot in his heart.

_I won!_

* * *

He receives a bouquet of red roses and a silver coronet as his prizes and the King smirks as he presents them.

“I hope you do as well in the next events,” he says in what many might confuse as a jovial tone, but Finnick knows better. He grins and bows.

“Of course, Uncle,” he says and then he turns to the crowd, tossing roses to various ladies and they swoon and giggle. He saves the last for Annie and rides over to her, her hands pressed over her wide smile. He bows his head, the rose held against his heart.

“For your faith in me, lady,” he says and offers it to her. She takes it with a happy laugh.

“I never had a doubt,” she promises and he beams at her. He winks, she giggles and then he’s back to join the others, knowing he can do anything.

With Annie to cheer him on, he feels like he’s king of the whole world.

* * *

The next, and last, event is the team joust and Finnick’s team wins, each of them receiving a solid silver livery badge from the king, his wolf depicted wearing a golden crown and with rubies for eyes. They bow to the crowd, who shower them with flowers and scraps of lace, and as soon as they’ve left the field, everyone retires inside to get themselves ready for the evening banquet.

Finnick washes and then dresses, his new silver coronet on his head and the king’s pin on his front. He moves through the halls with a bounce in his step, _because today, today went perfectly_. The doors to the great hall are opened for him and he is announced with much pomp, the guests inside applauding loudly. He bows to them, smile wide and even his mother nods at him in approval. He feels his chest warm and then someone is pressing a goblet of wine into his hand, everyone rushing over to congratulate him.

He tries to peek over their heads to find Annie, but he cannot see her, the crush of people all around blocking out nearly everything else. He smiles at them, sips his wine and _as soon as I can break free Annie, I’ll find you._

* * *

It takes hours for everyone to get drunk enough to allow him to slip off and he does, searching the hall eagerly for Annie. He finds her looking out a window, the candle light making her deep brown hair sparkle with gold. He smiles without thinking about it and hurries to her side, his stomach fluttering.

“And what, my fair lady, has you so fascinated?” he asks and her reflection smiles at him. She turns.

“I’m so proud of you Finnick, you were brilliant,” she says and of all the praise he’s gotten today this one feels the best of all.

“It’s because you were here, I can do anything when you’re with me.”

She blushes and ducks her head and he grins, meaning each and every word. She is wearing the necklace he’d gotten her what feels like a decade ago and he touches the golden heart gently, his finger tracing its outline. She looks up, her eyes reminding him of so many perfect summers swimming together and suddenly, strangely, he very much wants to kiss her. She has very pink lips and he thinks she’d taste like pears, her very favourite fruit.

“I have something for you,” she says softly and his heart lurches awkwardly in his chest. He clears his throat, chasing his thoughts away.

“Oh?”

She nods and it is only then that he notices the package in her hands, something wrapped in brown paper.

“A birthday gift.”

He blinks and takes it, and even though everyone keeps telling him he is becoming a man, he is not sure he believes it. He peels back the paper and it is a shirt of soft material, a silver wyvern stitched prominently in the middle and good luck charms sewn into the hem. He holds it out and Annie fidgets.

“I made it myself,” she explains shyly, “at first I was just going to put your badge, but then I was thinking about it what meant, valour and protection, and I thought to put the good luck charms, so you’d always be safe.”

He does not know what to say, this gift touching him in a way no other has. She looks around nervously and then, before he can even register what’s happening, she leans up and kisses his cheek. He inhales sharply, his skin tingles and she smells like sweet flowers and rose water, all his sense flooded with her.

“Happy birthday Finnick,” she whispers and he feels foolishly weak kneed. He wants to kiss her now more than ever, her face tantalizingly close but then

“Oh Finnick, you must dance with me!” Glimmer Mowbray calls from behind him, clapping her hands. The magic of the moment flutters away and he knows he has no choice; he will never get away with snubbing her twice in one day.

“I’ll hold this for you,” Annie says and takes his shirt back, her fingers tightening on the fabric. She folds in on herself as Glimmer’s footsteps grow closer, ducking her head so her hair obscures her face. He nods and then, regardless of the fact that Glimmer is watching, he presses a quick kiss to her forehead. She flushes and looks at him, her eyes very wide.

“Thank you Annie,” he murmurs to her skin, “for everything.”

Glimmer comes to tug him away but it is Annie he watches as they dance, that shirt hugged to her chest, her face bright and her eyes shining in the best of ways.

_I’ll win for you tomorrow Annie_

_I’d win the world for you_

* * *

He never gets the chance.

On day two they are supposed to have the individual jousts and then the melee, but everything is cancelled shortly after they break their fast. A plot is supposedly discovered, a handful of grubby men apparently planning the king’s demise and all festivities are replaced with executions.

The King leads them out to watch, followed by a grinning Enobaria and an eager Cato. His sour mood at being denied a chance to participate in the tourney is gone, replaced with excitement at the bloodshed to come. Finnick holds Annie’s hand, her fingers clammy, as the men are hung, drawn and quartered and _why must everything be so wretched here? Were two days of joy really so much to ask for?_

(the answer is yes of course)

(in this England there is no joy)

(there can’t be)

* * *

He kisses Annie’s hand when she leaves and Westminster looms behind him, the menace in every one of his nightmares. He squeezes her little ring is his palm as her litter trundles off, his heart trapped inside with her.

In his room, Finnick removes his doublet and shirt, sliding Annie’s over his head. He runs his fingers over every charm sewn into the fabric and _I wonder, will I ever feel safe here?_

_Will anyone?_

* * *

When Christmas comes, it is unlike any Annie has previously attended.

There aren’t many people who’ve made the trek to London in a country still bubbling with anger, so the festivities are the smallest she’s ever been to at court. Annie doesn’t mind, indeed she likes it better this way.

There is still too much food, loud music and plenty of dancing, but then, the King would never allow there to be anything else. Even with a diminished guest list, he is just as determined as ever to show off and prove just how undaunted he is by the rebels. The decorations are lavish, grandiose really, with sweet smelling garlands over the doors, shimmery fake snow along the edges of the walls, large silken banners hanging from the ceiling and even a life sized silver wolf wearing a solid gold crown. It sits just beside the king’s throne and Annie shivers somewhat at its snarling face, its amber eyes flickering with torchlight. Each guest is even given their own rose pin made of rubies and what a show of wealth this is, a reminder of all the power at his command.

There are large buffet tables overflowing with every kind of food she can imagine on either side of the dais holding the king’s throne, everything smothered over in rich sauces and seasonings. There is one whole table devoted to subtleties and confectionaries, a great wolf of marchpane sitting in the middle. He is decorated with coloured fruit paste and flower petals and stands just as tall as a real wolf, towering over all the other sweets. There are great barrels full of mead, wine and ale that never seem to empty and belled servers with feathery wings dole out goblets to one and all, Annie’s mulled mead making her blood hum.

Tumblers and dancing girls frolic around the edges of the room while everyone helps themselves to food, minstrels playing loud and lively tunes. Annie eats very little dinner, too tempted by all those lovely desserts to fill up on meat but Finnick decides not to wait and alongside his supper, he brings himself a large bowl of strawberry pudding with currants.

“Really?” she asks with a laugh and cannot help but think of Madge. _I wonder if she’ll ever come back to court…_

“I’m sorry, did you want some?” he asks with a grin and she rolls her eyes, her smile impossible to keep down. He feeds her a delicious spoonful and she sighs happily, though she cannot help but blush at the thought of them sharing a spoon. Her goblet of mead, which she was certain she’d finished, is full once again and she takes a large gulp, her eyes roving over the room. Everyone seems to be in bright spirits except the Lady Alma, who sits in the corner glowering. Annie is not surprised; Lady Alma has never been very fun. Her husband Plutarch is quite the opposite, dressed in garish clothes and laughing raucously, his hand never devoid of a tankard of ale.

“Quite the pair, eh?” Finnick jokes and Annie grins, bumping his shoulder. Darius flops next to her, his cheeks already red with too much wine.

“Do you think Glimmer Mowbray likes me?” he asks and Finnick chokes on his pudding.

“What? Why?”

Darius bites his lip, casts a bashful look over at pretty Glimmer in her golden gown and smiles.

“I think I’m in love with her,” he sighs and Finnick grimaces.

“You’re thirteen, what do you know about being in love with anyone?” he asks, sounding somewhat desperate and Annie tries her best not to smile.

“You’ll be a duke one day and I know for a fact that’s exactly the type of man she’s looking for,” Annie says in an attempt to be helpful and Darius beams.

“That’s right. Do you think she’d marry me?”

Finnick spits out a mouthful of mead.

“You can’t be serious.”

Darius cocks his head.

“Why not?”

Finnick just shakes his head, expression appalled. Annie bites her lip.

“Perhaps you should go and test the waters,” she suggests, gesturing at Glimmer and Darius leaps to his feet.

“I think I will, good idea Anne,” he enthuses and punches her rather roughly in the arm. He saunters off and she rubs the tender spot, Finnick still shaking his head.

“Good God,” he says and downs his entire goblet of mead. Annie pats his arm in sympathy.

“At least she’ll strop trying to wriggle a proposal out of you,” she offers as comfort and he nods slowly.

“I guess there’s that. But really, what could he possibly see in her?”

“She’s very pretty.”

Finnick rolls his eyes.

“You’re prettier. And what does that matter anyways? She’s awful. If they marry, I’ll have to spend my whole life being her step-cousin. I think I’m going to need more mead.”

Annie laughs, her cheeks pink and her heart happy. People begin to dance, those shimmery costumed dancing girls weaving between them and Annie finishes her roasted swan, her eyes finding the king on his throne. Cherry juices drip down his chin and she shudders, the sight eerily making her think of blood. He doesn’t happy, his eyes narrowed and his mouth surly, but then, he only seems happy when awful things are happening. Maybe she should find his mood reassuring.

“Dance with me?” Finnick asks and she beams, her body feeling oddly light. He takes her hand and the smaller party makes everything feel more intimate. They stand a bit closer than they should while Queen Enobaria dances a little too familiarly with Brutus the Duke of Somerset beside them. Annie giggles nervously and Finnick rolls his eyes.

“And then she wonders why people keep spreading rumours about Cato’s paternity,” he murmurs and Annie laughs in shock.

“Finnick!” she gasps and he shrugs.

“I’m just saying.”

The music picks up in tempo and they spin and twirl, a happy sort of dizziness coming over her. She catches sight of Prince Cato devouring everything he can get his hands on, his table manners as poor as usual and he drains a large cup of something, his face flushed. Much worse is the sight of her father disappearing down a hallway with a giggling dancing girl, their hands all over each other. Annie tries to drown the image of it with a great big goblet of mead when Glimmer comes to drag Finnick away for a dance, his smile pasted on. Her head buzzes a bit and Annie moves over to the sweets table, popping a few almondy figs in her mouth. She helps herself to a plate full of honeyed pears and some more mead, a pleasant warmth in her whole body.

She sits down on a bench and fans herself, her eyes finding Finnick as he spins Glimmer around. They’re easily the two loveliest people here and they make a breathtaking couple, but any melancholy vanishes when Finnick catches her eye and sticks out his tongue. Annie laughs and soon he’s back beside her, helping himself to some of her pears. They smile at each other until Finnick’s eyes widen and she turns just in time to see Prince Cato pass out face first into Clove Clifford’s bust. Annie laughs in shock but Clove doesn’t seem to mind, her cheeks red and her fingers stroking through his pale gold hair.

Glimmer, her shining silver hair slipping out of its perfect coif, attempts to rouse Cato to partner her but he merely responds with what might be a snore and she recoils in disgust. Annie sips some more mead and Glimmer settles on Darius instead, his eyes closed as he sways by himself in a corner. She heads over, flutters her eyelashes and he is wild with enthusiasm, his eyes bright. He spins her around with perhaps a bit too much exuberance, her eyes wide with alarm and her expression a little ill.

“I told him he needs to tone down the excitement a bit, but alas, he never listens,” Finnick says dramatically, flinging his head back with a hand against his forehead and Annie laughs, the copious amounts of mulled mead she’s already imbibed swirling around inside her. She offers him a slice of pear and feels a pleasant sort of quivering inside herself as his lips briefly touch her fingers. He feeds her one in return and her heart beats a little fast as she watches him lick the leftover honey from his fingers.

“Lady Anne! Join me in a dance?” Darius calls from across the room, Glimmer sitting down heavily on a bench with a queasy expression. Annie takes another large gulp of mead and beams.

“Of course!”

She dodges a sashaying Lord Roos as she makes her way to Darius, a fit of giggles nearly overtaking her. He is still a bit too gung ho, twirling and spinning and jumping all over, but Annie doesn’t mind, her whole body buzzing. His breath smells like wine and his eyes are a bit unfocused, but she hardly notices, not even when they bump into the couple beside them. He bows low when they’re done and nearly falls right over, Annie giggling furiously all the while. She stumbles back over to Finnick, the ground feeling a little less steady.

“I missed you,” she tells him, those inescapable giggles still finding their way past her lips. Finnick drinks deeply from his mead and laughs.

“Darius that bad a dancer?” he quips and she giggles all the harder, losing her balance and tipping right over into him. She half-laughs, half-squeals and he catches her, his arms looping around her waist as he pulls her into his lap. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, a glassiness in his eyes and if you asked, there is no way she’d be able to remember how much either of them had drunk. She clumsily reaches for their plate of pears, spilling a few to the floor, and happily sucks on one of the fatter ones. It sticks half out of her mouth and her tongue occasionally darts out to lick at the honey dripping off the end, the sticky sweetness of it making her taste buds sing. She feels Finnick’s eyes on her and turns a bit to see his gaze pretty firmly rooted to her lips. She swallows quickly.

“Do you want one?” she asks and he blinks a few times, his expression hazy.

“Uhhhh....yes, yes,” he says with a shake of his head and she laughs, choosing a particularly honeyed one and feeding it to him. They share several more goblets of mead; Baron Hungerford entertains them all with some sort of jester routine and for the first time Annie can remember, the party seems to end too soon. Usually she cannot wait for festivities at the King’s court to be over (and it’s probably all the mead talking), but she almost wishes tonight would never end. It does though and she and Finnick have to help each other up to her room, their arms snug around each other. Mags is waiting up for her return and Annie trips into her, feeling flushed and giggly.

“Oh dear, you’re going to have an awful headache tomorrow,” Mags says before turning to Finnick. “And what about you, will you be able to get back to your room?”

He sways on the spot for a moment before nodding.

“Of coursssse, m’lady,” he says and then tips an invisible hat at her. Mags sighs.

“Oh dear.”

Annie reaches forward and runs her fingers through his hair.

“Goodnight, my earl,” she mumbles and he catches her hand. He kisses her wrist and she feels immediately dizzy.

“Sweet...sweet dreams my countess,” he manages and then stumbles off, actually bouncing off one wall.

“Oh my goodness,” Mags says and marches Annie over to her bed. She sits her down and gives her a stern look.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

She runs off after Finnick and Annie falls backward into her pillows, her whole body humming. _What a lovely night_ she thinks and by the time Mags gets back she’s already fast asleep, her dreams bright and filled with Finnick.

* * *

She does have an awful, splitting headache the next day, but so does nearly everyone else. It doesn’t take them very long to sober up though, as the king rouses them all to witness his latest executions, a string of miserable men hung from the scaffold.

It is just like with the tournament and whatever magic she’d felt last night is gone, dying a quick, violent death. She’d forgotten briefly, beautifully, but now it’s time to remember.

This is Coriolanus’ England, there is no happiness here.

* * *

_1469  
April_

The end comes in the form of Haymitch Abernathy.

He arrives in April and though Finnick never actually sees him, his presence is impossible to ignore. He is one of their chief enemies and every single Lancastrian is on edge as soon as his delegation arrives. King Louis keeps them far apart, sending his Lancastrian guests to some smaller palace and keeping them under heavy guard. It is obvious why.

Haymitch has come to negotiate a treaty, probably to do with trade, friendship and even a royal marriage for Queen Katniss. But every Lancastrian in France is well aware that any treaty will be sealed with their deaths, that King Louis will have to hand them over if he wishes to have any lasting alliance with this new England. A few try to comfort themselves with the thought that Queen Enobaria is Louis’ cousin and surely he wouldn’t sell her and her son to the Yorkists, but Finnick is not so sure. Louis is called ‘the spider’ and Finnick is not sure he trusts family ties to save them. If the offer from England is lucrative enough, will King Louis really deny the Yorkists their great prize?

Unfortunately, of course, his cousin Louis is their only hope. If he sides with the Yorkists, they are finished. So Finnick, like every other Lancastrian, is forced to place all his trust in Louis and hope, hope, hope that he is a true family man.

If not...

* * *

_1466_

More riots flare up all over the country and Finnick wonders if they’ll ever end, wonders too if the House of Lancaster can really survive this onslaught. He’d never say it out loud of course, would never ever cast a single doubt on Lancaster’s superiority, but it’s been years and these rebels haven’t given up, in fact they seem to grow with every violent put down.

He’ll be seventeen this September and he knows if these rebellions continue, he’ll be called up to fight. This is what he’s been training for, preparing for and he’s ready, he really is.

(but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t scared)

(he is scared, scared of dying, scared of never seeing his loved ones again)

(not, of course, that he’d ever admit it)

* * *

Annie sits with her feet in the river just beyond Great Canfield Castle and the water laps at her calves. The early August sun is warm on her head and the breeze is light, just tickling stray hairs against her cheek. She inhales deeply, breathing in wet earth and summer flowers, and a pair of hands covers her eyes.

“Hello Finnick,” she says and smiles. She tilts her head back and he grins down at her, his hair blown about his head from the ride he must’ve just finished. He’s still dressed for travel and she is so happy to have him here, even if his visits seem to come later every year. He holds out a bouquet of wildflowers and she blinks before taking them.

“What are these for?”

He grins a little sheepishly and sits down beside her.

“I may have accidentally forgotten your birthday present at home,” he admits and she laughs. She brings the flowers up to her nose and breathes in, her eyes closing for a moment.

“They’re lovely, thank you.”

He nods and then reaches out to stroke her cheek. There is a callous on his thumb and she leans into his touch, a soothing feeling coming over her.

“I’m sorry I missed it, I really wanted to be here. There’s so much going on in London though, my uncle couldn’t spare me.”

She nods and squeezes the flower stems in her hands.

“It’s alright, I know you’re busy. I don’t expect you to come running every time I want you to.”

He looks at her for a long moment before he drops his hand and tugs off his boots, his movements jerky. She frowns.

“Finnick?”

“I hate this. All this waiting, worrying, wondering. I just wish the war would happen already and we could be done wi-”

She interrupts him with a gasp and grabs his knee.

“War? You really think there’s going to be a war?”

He looks at her, his expression impossibly sad and Annie feels her heart break. He looks down into his lap.

“Yes, I do. The rebellions, they’re getting worse. And that’s what all the talk in London is about, what to do when the war comes.”

He stands to pull off his hose and Annie drops her head into her hands. She can feel tears building behind her eyes and fear starts to lick her insides, sharp and cold. _Oh God, oh God._

“Annie?” he questions softly, sitting down beside her yet again, and she feels suddenly like she might burst.

“You’ll have to fight, won’t you?” she mumbles through her fingers and even before he answers, she knows what he’s going to say.

“Yes.”

She takes a shuddering breath and those tears begin to fall, Finnick’s hand soft on her back

“Annie...”

She straightens abruptly and grabs his free hand with both of hers.

“Promise me you’ll be careful. I know you have to fight and I’d never ask you not to, but please, please be careful Finnick, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. I-”

She never finishes, Finnick moving that hand from her back to the back of her head and pulling her into a kiss. Annie’s eyes go very wide and then flutter closed, the fingers of the hand she’s holding curling over hers. A feeling a little like all that mulled mead she’d drunk at Christmas runs through her veins as his lips press to hers, warm and soft and wonderfully Finnick.

“Annie...” he whispers softly and she leans in, kissing him again. She lets go of his hand to wrap her arms around his middle and he cradles her face, her heart skipping beats in her chest.

_This is per-_

“Anne!”

Mags’ voice sounds from not far off and they freeze simultaneously, their eyes snapping open. Annie and Finnick share a look of alarm and then Mags calls out again.

“Anne!”

She’s close, very close and Annie immediately rolls away from him, crawling hurriedly over to her boots. Finnick jumps up, expression terrified, and quickly gathers up his hose and boots. Annie fumbles with her laces in a panic and Finnick looks around wild eyed before sprinting off and diving behind their rock. Annie leaps up and sweeps grass from her skirts just as Mags finally comes into view, her arms folded across her chest.

“Didn’t you hear me calling?” she asks and Annie tries to smile.

“Sorry, sorry, I was daydreaming.”

Mags looks at her with narrowed eyes.

“Have you seen Finnick?” she asks and Annie feels her face heat up.

“Finnick? No, no, why would I have?” she asks and curses her breathless, high pitched voice. Mags gives her a suspicious look.

“He arrived not too long ago; he said he was coming to find you.”

“Oh, well, I haven’t seen him,” she says and then laughs. Mags frowns and then her eyes slide down to the flowers Annie hadn’t even realized she scooped up when she stood.

“Those are lovely,” she says, still suspicious and Annie can’t help but smile.

“They are, aren’t they? I picked them myself.”

“Hmm,” Mags says, clearly not believing it, “well, it’s time for supper.”

“I’m sure Finnick will come in soon when he realizes he can’t find me,” Annie says and Mags nods slowly. They head back inside and Annie buries her smile in Finnick’s bouquet, her blood actually singing.

_Oh Finnick_

(and hiding behind that rock from their very first meeting, Finnick cannot help but lean his head back and sigh a little dreamily)

( _oh Annie_ )

* * *

Finnick shuffles into dinner and Annie bites her lip to keep down her smile. She can feel herself blush and Mags watches her with knowing eyes. Her father doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss though and offers Finnick a hearty greeting.

“Ah, Lord Richmond, a pleasure to have you here as always. A pity your uncle couldn’t make it.”

“Yes,” Finnick agrees though he looks at Annie as he says it, “but he’s very busy right now. He sends his regards.”

He sits across from her and she smiles at him, her heart fluttering when he smiles back. Somehow, their feet find each other beneath the table and end up tangled together. Her boot rubs along the back of his calf and his voice becomes very uneven as he talks to her father, while she blushes very red when his foot ends up beneath her skirts. Mags rolls her eyes at the both of them.

They play cards after supper, but they don’t sit across from each other as they usually do. Mags just shakes her head at them as they sit glued to each other’s sides, so close they are practically one person. Annie feels fluttery and bright, her heart soaring, and she is beyond glad that Mags is king enough to let proper manners slide for the evening. They should most certainly never be so close to each other but Mags is wonderful enough to allow it and Annie might honestly be flying.

He walks her back to her room when it’s time to retire and she leans her head on his shoulder. Mags follows directly behind so nothing at all untoward happens and Finnick kisses her fingertips when he bids her goodnight, those eyes of his bright and glowing like two precious gems.

“Goodnight, my countess,” he murmurs softly and her heart beats up in her throat.

“Goodnight, my earl,” she whispers back and when she falls into bed, her dreams are happy and shining.

(but there is a darkness in them too, because not even sweet kisses from the boy of her dreams could ever eclipse the gnawing, awful fear of war)

* * *

They go walking in the gardens the next day, Mags following behind just far enough to see them but not hear them. Annie feels a surge of gratitude and sighs happily. She hugs his arm, her cheek against his shoulder and he leans his head against hers.

“I suppose this means you don’t think I bungled the first kiss then,” he teases and she laughs.

“It was perfect. It could have been the worse kiss in the world and it still would’ve been perfect.”

He grins.

“I suppose it could’ve been, it’s not like you have anything to compare it to.”

“And you do?” she asks with a grin of her own. He laughs.

“No, and that’s exactly why I was worried. I’ve had no practice at all, and you know how things usually go when I don’t practice.”

She laughs again and then hums in pleasure.

“I think it went very well,” she assures him and he grins.

“I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

They share a shy, happy smile and then skirt around a fragrant lilac bush.

“Though, you know, practice does make perfect,” he says and she bites her lip around a grin. They’ve lost sight of Mags for the time being and she nods.

“It most certainly does.”

He kisses her then, mouth firm against hers and one of her hands finds its way up to weave through his silken hair. It is much too brief a kiss, but they both pull away, knowing Mags might catch them at any moment. Still, even short as it was, Annie can feel its heat in her bones. They start walking again just as Mags regains her line of sight on them and Annie peeks up at Finnick, a sad sort of resignation creeping across his face. She frowns.

“Finnick?”

He sighs.

“I have to leave soon,” he says and she bites her tongue. “My uncle doesn’t like me being away from him for long, I suppose he’s afraid I might throw in with the rebels.

“How could he? You would never, not after...not after Henry,” she trails off and a black silence hovers over them for a moment, heavy with Henry’s ghost.

“No,” Finnick finally says, “no I wouldn’t. But you know my uncle; he isn’t very big on trust.”

Annie nods and hugs his arm a little tighter.

“Well, Christmas is only four months away, that’s not too long,” she says as brightly as she’s able. Finnick nods and manages a smile.

“Right, four months, that’s nothing.”

She smiles back at him, he kisses her head and maybe, one day, they’ll finally be able to spend more time together than they do apart.

* * *

They lie side by side on the grass as the sun sets, the sky painted in brilliant pinks, purples and oranges. They are shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined and she is fifteen but feels almost ageless. She could be four years old and meeting him for the first time, fourteen and realizing just how deep she’s fallen, six and freshly his friend, twelve and afraid of what’s to come for England. How many times have they done this? How many summer evenings spent gazing at the sky and dreaming of tomorrow?

Nearly all her life, Finnick has been beside her and she can’t even remember her life without him. He is a part of her, a part she would never want to live without and it doesn’t matter that he’s leaving, that it will be months before they see each other again. He’ll be back, he always comes back.

Even if she lives to be a hundred, she knows Finnick will still be lying beside her in the grass.

* * *

The air is mild when he leaves, white clouds scuttling across the sky. It is Annie alone that sees him off and he holds both her hands.

“I’m getting very tired of goodbye,” he jokes and she smiles sadly.

“Me too. Safe travels Finnick.”

He looks around the courtyard and then leans in quick to kiss her, a shiver running pleasantly along her spine. He pulls away and she keeps her eyes closed, humming softly.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises and she nods. She opens her eyes and he climbs on his horse, one of her hands still held in his. He squeezes it.

“I...I love you Annie,” he says and she breathes in deeply, her eyes widening. She smiles.

“I love you too, Finnick.”

He smiles, that beautiful, adorable, cheerful smile that weakens her knees and then he is gone, Annie watching him until he is out of sight.

_Soon, we’ll be together again soon_

* * *

Four months.

It should have passed quickly, but England is different now, the king’s court one of barely concealed misery rather than over-indulgent extravagance. Oh, the luxury is still there, but it is hollow now, a pale veneer over the rot beneath. The fear in the air is rank, the cold certainty that worse things are still to come lingers in every room and the paranoia about who can be trusted is in every pair of eyes. The king stems the flow of terror somewhat, his imposing presence, his oozing confidence, the grandiose celebrations, they mask the worry somewhat, but never enough.

Those four months sludge by and it is so hard to keep up his facade, but Finnick knows he cannot afford to falter. His uncle has made it very clear that he must be in the best of spirits at all times; he must be always confident and cheery. It is hard with desperation in the air, Annie far away and Henry dead, but he does it, for four endless months, he does it.

And then, finally, Annie arrives.

There is a faint dusting of snow outside when she arrives, the sight of her litter lifting Finnick’s heart. Her father nods at him and Finnick nods back, the chilly wind not even fazing him. A groom opens up the litter door and Annie steps down with Mags just behind her. His eyes sweep over her from top to bottom, already some of his tension melting away. She is wearing a costly sable cloak and hood, her dark hair sneaking out to fall over her shoulder. It shines like rich silk and her cheeks are rosy from the cold, the tip of her nose starting to turn red. His heart warms and she smile at him, trapping him momentarily in her glittering ocean gaze.

He strides over to them and bows, Annie and Mags curtsying in reply.

“Mags,” he greets with a kiss to her hand and she rolls her eyes, smiling fondly. He grins and then kisses Annie’s hand, the soft leather of her glove sweet smelling with her perfume.

“Lady Anne.”

“Hello, Lord Finnick,” she says and they can do nothing but smile at each other here, wicked gossips lurking behind every corner. He offers them both his arms and then leads them inside, eager to get Annie alone. They make their way up to the Oxfords’ chambers and Mags very politely offers to oversee the unpacking of Lord John’s belongings, giving Annie and Finnick at least a moment to themselves.

“It’s so good to see you,” Annie says as soon as Mags is gone, squeezing his arms. He grins somewhat dopily and pulls her in for a hug, her body fitting just perfectly against his.

“You have a real flair for letter writing, but still, this is better,” she murmurs and he kisses her head.

“It really is,” he agrees. She pulls back and looks at him shyly, her hand coming up to touch his face. Her thumb strokes his cheek and he leans forward, his lips meeting hers. She is soft against him and the memories he’d taken with him pale in comparison to this, every one of his senses drowning in Annie. She stands up a bit on her toes and his arms slide around her waist, holding her closer. Without really thinking about it, his mouth parts and hers follows suit, the taste of her on his tongue feeling like a blaze of fire in his every organ. Her arms wind around his neck and he pulls her closer still, as close as he possibly can. It feels as if there is a coil within him being wound tight, a flush of bright heat in his lower half and then there is a heavy thunk against the door.

“Oh blast these old things,” Mags says very, very loudly and Finnick and Annie spring apart. Finnick breathes in deeply and quickly spins to face the wall, cursing his anatomy and the impossibility of hiding anything while wearing hose. Annie clears her throat.

“Having trouble Mags?” she calls and Finnick focuses on a rather gruesome tapestry on the wall, the crucifixion demonstrated in extremely gory fashion.

“Oh no, I’ve got it,” Mags says cheerily and steps inside. _Do not think about Annie, think about Jesus,_ Finnick tells himself firmly, eyes still fixed on the hideous tapestry.

“Something interesting over there Lord Finnick?” Mags asks and he shakes his head, praying his voice will come out sounding normal.

“I was just admiring this tapestry,” he says and though it is rather disturbing, he can’t help but find it extremely useful. It does enough to slow his roaring blood and he turns to Mags with as normal a smile as he can manage.

“Well, I’d best be off,” he says and leaves before either one of them can say anything. He hurries into the hall and sticks his head out the nearest window, the cold air doing wonders to cool him down.

_Why does the fashion have to be short doublets and hose? Everything would be a lot less embarrassing if men still wore those big long houppelandes..._

* * *

Annie finds him a little later and he almost jumps at her hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright? You ran off rather quickly.”

“Yeah, no, of course. I just didn’t want Mags to think we were up to no good,” he attempts to joke and she bites her lip.

“I think she already does,” she says with a nervous laugh and a slight blush. He snorts.

“Yeah, she probably does. She was a bit obvious with her entrance, wasn’t she? Well, you can assure her I have no intention of sullying your honour.”

Annie nods slowly and presses herself up against his arm. He swallows.

“Take me for a walk in the gardens?” she asks and he looks down at her, his heart feeling oddly large in his chest.

“I love you,” he blurts and she smiles, a breathtaking, perfectly Annie smile. _It shouldn’t be possible for someone to be so lovely in both personality and looks..._

“I love you too,” she says sweetly and he beams.

“Right, a walk in the garden was it?”

She nods and they set off, her head resting against his shoulder. Their fingers end up entangled and if he’s being honest, Finnick feels a little like he’s walking on air.

* * *

Christmas is unpleasantly sombre; the kingdom’s fracturing leaving few people in the mood to celebrate. There are fewer people present than ever and Finnick cannot help but count the noble lords who have chosen not to attend. There is no Duke of York, no Earl of Salisbury, Earl of Warwick or Duke of Suffolk. There is no Earl of Kent, no Baron Howard nor even the Duke of Norfolk and his obnoxious daughter Glimmer. Finnick cannot believe he is thinking it, but he thinks he might prefer her to be here, at least then he would not need to worry about whether or not her father was planning to betray them.

The food is still rich, the music lively but it does not have the same effect it used to. Still, everyone smiles, laughs and dances, trying their best to pretend everything is alright and nothing at all is amiss. Cato is the life of the party, boisterous and exuberant. He eats heartily, drinks heavily and dances with Clove Clifford for hours on end, his loud laughter filling up the hall. It is almost a blessing, his genuine lack of concern of what’s hovering just beyond their horizon making it almost seem like a silly triviality and nothing to be at all worried about. _Perhaps_ , a few of them think as he cavorts with Clove, _perhaps war is not so inevitable after all_.

Finnick himself dances with all sorts of women, from Alice Willoughby to Baroness Neville to Eleanor Talbot to the Countess of Ormond, but he saves his first and last dances for Annie. She is lovely in emerald green and she wears the necklace he’d given her years ago, the golden filigree heart, his heart, hanging right next to hers where it belongs.

“I love you,” he whispers softly, so softly only she can hear him, and he loves saying it, wants to say it as often as he can. She hums happily, her fingers tightening on his.

“I love you too,” she whispers back and he knows he will never ever get tired of hearing it.

Christmas is unpleasantly sombre, but for Finnick at least, there is still some light to be found.

* * *

New Year’s creeps ever closer and Finnick looks down at the two gifts he’d gotten Annie, both of them sitting on his pillow. One is fairly straight forward, a rosary with beads made of crystal and coral. Finnick himself has never been the most devout of people and Uncle Boggs had scoffed at the price, but Finnick knows Annie puts greater stock in such things and he’d been unable to resist buying it. It is a perfectly good gift; certainly an expensive one and he is fairly confident Annie will love it.

It is the other gift that gives him pause.

Not the gift itself per se, a gold ring with a large diamond and tiny sapphire clusters on either side, but the meaning behind it. His hope is that this ring will serve a greater purpose than just that of a new year’s gift, but will he have the courage to give it to her?

_I’ll be your countess Earl Finny, happily_

_Will you Annie? Will you really?_

* * *

Though Christmas was somewhat lacking in cheer, New Year’s has a slightly more upbeat feel.

(it may have something to do with the presents)

Everyone lavishes the King with magnificent things (Finnick himself presents him with a pair of silver goblets engraved with the royal coat of arms) and then exchange their own gifts, a little bit of merriment managing to be found. Finnick’s gifts for Annie seem to burn in the pouch hanging from his belt, a hideous worry eating him up.

_Courage you lily-liver, courage!_

Annie comes up to him, her smile shy and he might be melting, all of his bones turned to mush. All his training to be brave, strong, hard, it all falls completely apart with just one look at her.

“Happy New Year, Finnick,” she says softly and he grins at her, a happy swoop in his stomach. Her dark hair gleams in the candlelight and it is easy being in love with her, easier even than breathing, but wanting her, God, he thinks he might be going mad.

“Happy New Year,” he answers and offers her his arm. She takes it, drawing a bit too close for propriety but no one notices, all of them much too focused on all their gifts. He leads her over to a bench beside a great tall window, the stained glass showing St George slaying the dragon and rescuing a pretty maiden. They sit, knees just brushing and Finnick cannot help but hope for some of George’s bravery. Annie bites her lip and Finnick can feel a quiver of nerves starting in his spine and spreading out over him.

_you’ve asked her twice already, what’s once more?_

“Here,” she says breathlessly, almost worriedly, and she holds out her gift to him, her cheeks very pink. It is a book of some sort and he takes it, the brushing of their fingers making goosebumps skiddle over his skin. He turns it over to read the cover, the letters written in gold.

“Love poems?” he questions and she ducks her head, her hair falling to cover her face.

“I’m...I’m not very good with words, but I thought maybe...maybe someone else might have better luck describing just how I feel.”

Her red blush works its way down her neck and he smiles, his chest very warm.

“Thank you, I look forward to reading it,” he says sincerely and Annie looks up, her expression relieved. He grins and then reaches into his pouch, his fingers closing around the rosary.

“For you,” he says and holds it out for her. She takes it with delicate hands and gasps softly, her eyes widening.

“Oh Finnick, it’s beautiful. It must have cost a fortune.”

He shrugs.

“It’s alright, I only ever splurge on you,” he teases with a grin and she turns redder still. He shouldn’t of course, not with so many people around, but he can’t help reaching out to gently push her hair away from her face, his hand cupping her rosy cheek.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says and she shakes her head, her fingers coming up to wrap around his wrist.

“I love it,” she corrects and squeezes, his skin burning under her touch. He can feel that ring in his pouch and _do it, ask her!_

He looks away from her briefly and out around the room, so many people gathered about. He catches his mother glaring at them from across the room and his stomach clenches. Her eyes are narrowed, her lips thinned into an angry line and he can’t do this here. He wants this to be romantic, happy and it can’t be, not with so many strangers around and certainly not with his mother’s damming eyes.

He turns back to Annie instead and she smiles, his whole body made of custard.

_I love you,_ he thinks and it doesn’t matter what his mother will certainly say _, I love you._

_I will always love you_

* * *

He walks Annie back to her room and she kisses his cheek before ducking inside. He hums happily to himself and fingers the ring in his pouch, an anxious thrill lodging somewhere in his chest.

_I’ll do it soon Annie, soon_

“A word Finnick.”

He stiffens and he knew this was coming, of course he did. He turns and his mother is there, her expression just as disapproving as it had been in the great hall. He does not bother to smile.

“What can I do for you Mother?” he asks even though he knows full well. She scowls.

“I have seen you with the Oxford girl,” she says and her voice drips with disdain. He bristles.

“Her name is Annie,” he says coldly and she seems to sour further, her face tightening.

“She is an earl’s daughter-”

“And I am an earl’s son.”

His mother frowns at him, her eyes glittering with frustration.

“You are a king’s nephew; you are worth a far greater bride. You could have Madge of Bedford!”

“Never,” he swears and she blinks in surprise at his vehemence.

“And why not?”

He sighs in annoyance and runs his hand through his hair.

“You know why, Mother. I’m in love with Annie, I always will be.”

She snorts.

“So? Do you think I married your father for love?”

“No-”

“Do you think I married Plutarch for love?”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Exactly, none of us marries for love, Finnick,” she says as if he’s too stupid to know that and he clenches his fists.

“Well no wonder we’re all such miserable sots then!” he snaps and her eyes darken.

“Don’t be such a child. Whatever you feel for this girl, it is immaterial. You have a great destiny ahead of you Finnick; I can’t understand why you are so determined to throw it away.”

All his life, Finnick has heard about this supposed great destiny. All his life he has tried to live up to his mother expectations, to make her proud. Even now, seventeen and convinced he no longer cares what she thinks, he wants her to smile at him and tell him she loves him. They have never been close, but still, Finnick is so small in her presence, wishing desperately he could be everything she wants him to be.

“I will be greater with Annie than without her,” he says softly and she opens her mouth to interrupt. He doesn’t give her the chance. “I have always done everything you wanted Mother. I read the books you gave me, I befriended Cato and everyone else you told me to, I dress the way you suggested, I’ve practiced hard at every skill you insisted I had to master. Have I ever let you down? Is there anything I haven’t done that you’ve asked me to? Can you not let me have just this? I love Annie, Mother, I love her more than anything. Won’t you allow me this?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so pleading but he does and she just looks at him for a long, painful moment and he knows her answer before she even says it.

“I only want what’s best for you,” she says and he closes his eyes.

“Then you should be happy, because Annie is what’s best for me.”

He turns and leaves before she can say anything else, his heart in his throat as he stomps back to his room.

_Why can’t you let me have just this one thing?_

_Is it so wrong for me to want to be happy?_

* * *

Finnick slams his door behind him and throws himself on his bed, his heart still hammering in his chest.

Every once and a while, he fools himself into believing that maybe, one day, he and his mother will get along. He snorts to cover the weepiness in his chest. _A vain hope indeed_. He rolls onto his back and looks up the ceiling, the anger still simmering in his veins.

_how dare she_

It is not that his mother’s disapproval is an impediment in itself, as Boggs is his guardian not her, but it could still be dangerous. As a member of the King’s family, he requires royal permission to marry. What if she convinces the king to forbid the match?

_Then we’ll run away_ , he thinks but knows they never could. Where would they go? How would they live? Could he really ask Annie to give up everything for him?

_No, I couldn’t_.

His hand brushes her book and he lifts it up, running his fingers over the golden title. He rolls over onto his stomach and opens it, Annie’s words playing over in his mind.

_maybe someone else might have better luck describing just how I feel_

He starts to read and soon every last shred of his anger, his worry, just fades away. It does not matter what anyone says, it does not matter what they think, he loves Annie and she loves him. He is no poet, he could never spin such pretty words as these, but he feels each one burning in his heart.

_We’ll figure it out, some way, somehow_. _Tomorrow Annie,_ he decides _, tomorrow I’m going to ask you to marry me_

* * *

Finnick waits anxiously the next morning for Annie to leave her rooms, his heart thudding loudly in his throat. He’d wanted something grand and romantic but that was impossible at court, unless he wanted everyone and their uncle to witness the entire exchange. He could wait until the summer of course for privacy, but he doesn't want to wait. He’s just going to have to hope that whatever words he might come up with will be romantic enough.

_You beat Brutus of Somerset in a tournament, you can certainly do this_

Annie steps out of the door and he lurches forward, needing to get a hold of her before Mags arrives. He grabs her wrist and her eyes widen in surprise. She looks at him in question and he tugs her into the relative privacy of a hallway nook, a nervous sweat starting to prickle on his brow.

“Finnick?” she asks and he swallows.

“Sorry, it’s...it’s just that I have something for you,” he tries, failing miserably at sounding anything other than nervous. She tilts her head.

“But you already gave me a new year’s present.”

He nods and takes a deep breath.

“This isn’t...this isn’t quite a new year’s gift. And it uh, it comes with a bit of a catch.”

She blinks.

“A catch?”

He nods and takes a deep breath.

“Yes, um...it um...it comes with me.”

Annie’s eyes go impossibly wide and she inhales sharply. Finnick launches ahead, taking her hands and twining their fingers.

“I love you Annie, I think I’ve loved you almost as long as I’ve known you. Before I even knew what love was, I think I was in love with you. And I want to be with you Annie, for as long as I live. I want to marry you, grow old with you and love you for the rest of my life. So that’s what my other gift is,” and he takes it out of his pouch, Annie gasping softly, “I thought...I thought it could be a betrothal ring, if...if you wanted it to be.”

He looks at her anxiously, his heart beating painfully in his chest and her hands cover her mouth, her eyes as round and wide as the moon. It takes her only a second to make a decision but it feels like a thousand years to Finnick, his nerves frayed and shaking.

“Yes!” Annie shrieks and throws herself on him, her arms around his neck. He catches her automatically and she kisses his cheeks, his chin, his jaw, anything she can reach.

“Yes, yes, yes! I love you Finnick, I always have, I always will.”

Finnick smiles in relief and laughs, spinning her around. His heart feels like it may burst out of his chest and never ever ever has he been as happy as this.

“Really?” he asks and she laughs, perfectly, beautifully Annie.

“Yes!”

He spins her again and then kisses her, lost immediately in the intoxicating taste of her. She smiles against his lips and there is a sort of bliss in his blood he never could have imagined.

_I love you Annie, I think I was born to love you_

“Anne!”

“That’s Mags,” Annie whispers, pulling away reluctantly, “I have to go.”

Finnick nods and kisses her again.

“I love you Annie Cresta.”

“I love you Finnick Odair.”

She leans up to kiss him goodbye, her arms wrapping around his neck. He melts into her and her tongue slips into his mouth, his whole body immediately on fire.

“Anne!”

They pull apart again and share a smile. She kisses him quick and he catches her hand as she walks away, pressing his mouth to her palm. Annie looks at him, her face flushed, her eyes bright and no one in the world could ever hold a candle to her. He slides the ring onto her finger and she smiles widely, her joy wrapping around him and making him glow.

“Anne! Where are you?”

“Coming!” she calls and blows him one last kiss before rushing off. He falls back against the wall, smile goofy and heart singing. He still has to get both her father’s and his royal uncle’s permission, but he hardly cares.

Annie wants to marry him.

That’s all that matters.

* * *

Annie blows him a kiss from her litter and he catches it, holding it up against his heart. She laughs and he grins and _I love you_ , he thinks as she rides away, _I will never stop loving you_.

* * *

Annie looks at her betrothal ring, the most precious thing she’s ever owned, and wants to swoon. Finnick has asked her to marry him, officially this time, and all they need is the king’s and her father’s permission. If they can get that, they’ll be together forever. It will be an agonizing wait to hear from him, to know if he’s succeeded, but it feels a little easier to bear with his ring on her finger. Not just because of the future it represents, but because it feels a little like he’s with her, like she has a piece of his heart to carry with her through the days to come.

_It’s like…having a piece of you with me everywhere I go._

He’d said that about that very first new year’s gift, that ring he keeps on a string and she knows exactly what he means. She wears his sea glass bracelet to remind her of ocean breezes and the best home she’s ever known and his ring to banish lonely nights. The moon is bright and round beyond her window and _I love you Finnick Odair, I will love you even after every star has fallen from the sky._

* * *

_1469  
June_

Finally, fortune seems to favour them.

Katniss of York is betrothed to Peeta of Burgundy.

The news hits the French Court like a cannon blast and King Louis is enraged. Haymitch scrambles to salvage the situation but there is nothing he can do. Katniss has gone behind both their backs to arrange this marriage and it is clear now that she never had any intention of making an alliance with the French. This was all a ruse to buy her time to negotiate with Burgundy and she might as well have spat in King Louis’ face. Her decision not only to distract him with Haymitch but then choosing a Burgundian groom has insulted and humiliated him in a horribly public way. Finnick’s not really sure she could have done anything worse.

Haymitch is sent home in disgrace, the Yorkist threat recedes and suddenly, new life is breathed into the House of Lancaster. It is not just that they have been spared a traitor’s death in England, but now, now King Louis is angry, furious. He wants the Yorkists punished.

And what better way to punish them, than to help their enemies overthrow them?

* * *

_1467_

Finnick has been nervous before, but never like this.

He stands before the King’s audience chamber, his heart beating so loud he is sure everyone in Westminster can hear it. Uncle Boggs is beside him and offers him an encouraging smile, while Finnick takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

_You can do this_

All he has to do is convince the king to allow him to marry Annie. _Piece of cake. Right? Right._ He pushes open the doors and walks in, his nerves tightening. His uncle is seated in his throne, dark eyes narrowed and bloody lips pursed. Finnick forces himself not to shiver and dips into a deep bow.

“Your Majesties,” he greets and he can’t help but feel relieved that Cato isn’t here. Coriolanus and Enobaria aren’t exactly easy to deal with, but still, it could be worse.

“Rise, our dear Lord Richmond. What might we do for you?”

The King’s voice is sharp, challenging and Finnick breathes out slowly. He smiles his best, most charming smile and hopes he can work a little magic here.

“I have a request to make of you, my most beloved king,” he begins and the king raises one white eyebrow.

“A request?” he asks, a slow hiss working its way into his voice and Enobaria smirks.

“Yes, I hope you will grant me permission to seek the hand of Lady Anne of Oxford, the daughter of the most illustrious Earl of Oxford.”

The king leans forward in this throne and Enobaria honestly looks like she might laugh. The king’s tongue comes out to lick his blood smeared lips and Finnick makes sure to keep his smile on and his expression light and easy.

“And why should we allow that?”

Finnick nods, because he knew this was coming. All he can do now is hope the arguments he’s been working on will be good enough.

“The Earl of Oxford is a wealthy and powerful man, not to mention one of your most loyal servants. He has fought willingly against your enemies many times, as I myself hope to do. Would rewarding such loyalty not be prudent? There are those within England who still contemplate throwing in with the rebels, if they see how well we treat our allies, might that not sway them to our side? Furthermore, if they see one of England’s greatest magnates joined to you in holy matrimony it might deter them from pursuing any form of treason, knowing what formidable forces are arrayed against them. All I want, my most admired royal uncle, is to serve you as best I can. If you do not think this marriage is to your benefit, I will never think of it again. But I truly believe uniting with some of our staunchest allies will strike fear into the hearts of those foul traitors polluting your magnificent kingdom.”

His speech done, Finnick feels both relieved and terrified. _What if he says no?_

“Would the daughter of a duke not be more to your liking?” Enobaria asks, poison in her smile. “I know that is what your mother desires.”

The king watches him curiously, awaiting his response and Finnick inclines his head to the queen.

“Indeed, my lady mother does wish to see me wed a duke’s daughter, for she hopes to enrich my coffers and my prestige. I admit, your Majesty, that a marriage to one such as Lady Glimmer Mowbray might well make me rich and perhaps powerful, but I have no interest in self promotion. My one and only desire is to serve my king to the best of my ability,” he says and Enobaria’s lips curl over her fang like teeth. His uncle smirks.

“And we are ever glad to hear it. And what say you brother, do you agree with our nephew?” he asks, addressing Uncle Boggs.

“Yes, your Majesty, I do. I think the Lady Anne will make an excellent wife, as her father has made an excellent ally. Finnick is right I believe, that this marriage will bind a great family to us and may even convince those who waver in their loyalties,” he says and Finnick shoots him a relieved smile.

“And if we said we were contemplating a marriage for you with our great niece Madge of Bedford?” the King asks, his eyes boring into Finnick like heavy nails. Finnick smiles and bows again.

“A most generous and noble offer, my king. I will happily accept if that is your wish, but I think perhaps her hand may be better served given to someone else. My loyalty to you is absolute as is our cousin of Bedford’s, would we not serve you better by marrying into other families and guaranteeing their loyalty?”

He doesn’t look up and knows he has tread on dangerous ground. To suggest he might know better than the king would be reason enough for his uncle to remove his head from his shoulders, but he had to say something.

_Please, let this be enough to convince him_

“You are presumptuous nephew,” the king begins and Finnick closes his eyes, “but we approve your petition. You have our permission to ask the Earl for his daughter’s hand.”

His uncle’s voice is tight with anger as he says this and Finnick can easily guess why. The king needs allies, needs them desperately and this marriage is a sure fire way to ensure the Earl of Oxford’s loyalty. He cannot pass it up, even if he wanted to.

(and Finnick will never be glad of all this instability, but still, it might be the only reason the king will let him marry Anne, instead of forcing Madge on him)

Finnick feels almost as if the sun is rising within his chest and it takes all his effort not to start grinning like a fool.

“Thank you, your most magnificent Majesty.”

“The betrothal ceremony will take place in our presence and we shall dictate the terms of your marriage contract,” the King commands and Finnick nods, every part of him from skin to bones humming.

“Of course, my king.”

“Very well, you may leave us now.”

He does and as soon as he’s out of the room, he flings himself on Uncle Boggs with a jubilant laugh.

“We did it!” he says and Uncle Boggs laughs too.

“Indeed, but remember, you still need the Earl of Oxford’s permission.”

Finnick remembers, but he isn’t worried. The Earl of Oxford is at court to attend the king’s parliament and there is no way he’d refuse when the king himself backs the marriage. The Earl will give his approval, they’ll be betrothed and then, finally, he and Annie will be married. Finnick practically spins down the hallway, that perfect shining future stretching out before him.

_I can’t wait_

_I love you Annie_

* * *

In May, two months after her father had left for court, he returns.

He doesn’t come alone.

Annie heads down to the entrance hall to greet him and feels her heart jump at the sight of Finnick beside him. He grins at her, bright and excited, and Annie feels warm happiness wash over her. _Could it...has he..._ She cannot finish the thought, too excited and nervous.

_Oh Finnick, Finnick_

“Greetings, Father,” she says and curtsies, though her eyes can’t leave Finnick, the joyful glow in his eyes making her heart race.

“I would like a word, Anne,” her father says, offering her his arm. She takes it.

“Of course Father.”

He leads her to his study and she shoots one last look at Finnick, who nods to her, his smile threatening to overtake his entire face. She almost feels like she might pass out, excited anticipation thundering through her blood.

“Sit,” her father says when they reach his study and she does, trying her best to keep her explosive emotions off her face.

“I have good news,” he continues, “you are to marry the Earl of Richmond.”

Annie feels for a moment as if she cannot breathe.

“Really?” she manages and her father nods, all her hopes coming to fruition.

“We still have to hammer out the last few details, but yes. There will be a betrothal ceremony soon and a wedding after that. It is a good match Anne, I’m...very proud of you.”

Annie inhales sharply, her heart lurching in her chest. She is stunned nearly to silence, a sudden urge to cry rising up inside of her.

“Oh,” she whispers and wishes she could say more. He nods again and begins to straighten a pile of parchment on his desk. He clears his throat.

“I have a lot of work to do; I would appreciate if you would entertain our guest.”

She stands and nods.

“Of course, Father.”

Annie leaves the room and feels as if she has fallen into a dream. She is going to marry Finnick and her father is proud of her.

_Can this really be real life?_

* * *

She sends Mags off to see to the arrangement of Finnick’s rooms and then invites him to walk with her. He offers her his arm, his smile wide and goofy and Annie takes it with a silly grin of her own. They make their way outside to the garden, bright with freshly blooming flowers and as soon as they’re out of view, Finnick scoops her up and spins her around. Annie laughs and wraps her arms around him, her heart near bursting with joy.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says and he beams.

“Me neither, I feel like I’m living in a dream.”

She leans in and kisses him, the dizzying taste of him making her heart race. Her fingers wind through his hair, his hold on her tightens and she wants to stay like this forever.

“I want to get married at Dunstanburgh, right by the sea,” she says and he nods, his forehead touching hers.

“Alright.”

“And Mags can come live with us, can’t she?”

“Of course.”

“Are you going to agree to everything I say?” she laughs and he grins, squeezing her.

“Yes. As long as I’m with you, nothing else matters.”

Annie smiles at him, feels almost as if she might overflow with love for him, and sighs happily.

“I love you Finnick Odair.”

“And I love you, Annie Cresta, forever and ever and ever,” he says softly, impossibly sweetly and then he is kissing her again. She kisses him back eagerly, her blood singing for him and this, right here, is the meaning of perfection.

* * *

The betrothal ceremony happens in August, a week after her sixteenth birthday and Finnick is positive he’s never been so happy.

It happens at the King’s Sheen Palace and Finnick dresses in his very best doublet of light blue brocade. He dons a silver coronet, the whitest hose he can find and boots shined to perfection. He pins a livery badge for the king to his chest, a solid silver wolf with a golden crown and adds a jewelled belt as the final touch, a thrill of nervous excitement running through him.

He stands beside the priest in the chapel and waits for Annie, Uncle Boggs shooting him a grin. Finnick beams and when Annie arrives, he honestly forgets there is anyone else in the room. He does not see his mother glowering, Cato sneering, the King observing them with calculating eyes. All he sees is Annie, radiant and breathtaking like every star in the sky. She is dressed in silver, diamonds sparkling at her neck and ears, while her dark brown hair is woven with flowers. She smiles shyly with rosy cheeks and he looks into those perfect ocean eyes and falls in love with her all over again. He takes her hand when she reaches him and the ceremony begins, an exhilarated sort of joy starting to pound within him.

“I, Finnick Odair, Earl of Richmond, do pledge here before God and these witnesses that I will take you, Anne Cresta of Oxford, to be my lawful wife,” he says and slides her ring onto her right hand, already fantasising of the day he will be able to move it to her left and truly be her husband.

“I, Anne Cresta of Oxford, do pledge here before God and these witnesses that I will take you, Finnick Odair, Earl of Richmond, to be my lawful husband,” she answers and he might be flying. The priest blesses them, he kisses her to seal the betrothal and never, in all his life, has any moment been as blissful as this one. It is not marriage, not yet, but he is hers now officially, not just in his heart.

If ever he had to choose one moment to define happiness, he would choose this one right here.

* * *

They move into the great hall, Annie on his arm and Finnick is genuinely surprised he hasn’t started skipping. He cannot stop smiling and Annie beams up at him, the whole world bright and golden.

He signs the betrothal contract with her father and then the celebration truly begins, food and music and dancing for everyone. There are toasts from her father and Uncle Boggs, Finnick and Annie sharing the same cup of wine and then they are in each other’s arms, spinning around the dance floor as if there is no one else but them.

“I love you,” he whispers just for her, “today and forever.”

She smiles, eyes sparkling and the thought that he will get to be with her for the rest of his life steals the breath from his lungs.

“And I love you Finnick, until the end of my days and even after.”

He kisses her then, not caring even a little what anyone else thinks.

They are betrothed now; nothing in the world will ever tear them apart.

* * *

She leaves a scant few days later, back home to Hedingham while he stays in London on the king’s orders. It is sad to part, just as it always is, but there is still a lightness in his bones as he watches her ride away, his heart beating out her name against his ribs.

_Oh Annie, Annie, Annie_

_You are the greatest love any man could ever have_

(he is hopeless really)

(but honestly, he doesn’t mind at all)

* * *

They write as often as they can, their letters filled to the brim with lovely dreams of the future and there is a glow to both of them, the gentle glow of happy love.

Sitting in her garden smiling over his handwriting, Annie has no idea what’s coming, the black cloud rising to cover all of England, swollen up with English blood.

Lying in bed grinning over her words, Finnick forgets for a moment the rising tide of terror in the king’s court, the promise of a fast approaching war.

They are young, they are blissful but soon, soon they shall remember exactly what era they live in.

* * *

In September, two days after his eighteenth birthday, Finnick comes to see her.

Annie is embroidering a purse for her father when she sees him through a window, his horse charging in through the gates. Her heart leaps and she rushes down to meet him, but as soon as she sees him, all that joy starts to dissipate. He is grim faced and so is Boggs behind him, the both of them solemn and washed with gray.

“Lords Richmond and Pembroke, I didn’t know you were coming,” her father says and the serious look in Boggs’ eyes chills her to the bone.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to send a letter. Might we speak in private?” he says and her father nods. Annie feels sick as she watches them go, fear thick in her blood.

“Annie.”

She turns to Finnick and he has dismounted, such a tired, weary look on his face she almost wants to weep. Without a word he offers her his arm and she takes it, the two of them heading out to the garden where they might have at least a little privacy. He leads her to a bench and they sit, a heavy weight settling over them both. She takes his hand and winds her fingers through his, her heart starting to quicken with fear.

“Finnick?”

“I’m going to war,” he says stiffly, staring straight ahead at a particularly wild rose bush and she feels her breath catch in her lungs. She cannot speak, can barely think, only that one word repeating through her like a mocking echo.

_war_

“The Duke of York has declared war on the king,” Finnick spits and she barely remembers the duke, his presence at court during Christmas so very rare.

“He has nearly half of England on his side,” Finnick continues bitterly, “for he is very clever. He says he wishes to rid our fair kingdom of its evil tyrant, that he wants only to spare us all the calamity of Lancastrian rule. And to those who are not swayed by such talk, he declares himself rightful ruler of England, his claim to the throne stronger than our ‘false king’s’.”

He pauses for a moment and with mounting horror, Annie can see just how brilliant a strategy that is. He is painting himself a liberator, winning all those who have been mistreated and for those determined to remain loyal to the king, he argues that he is king, and thus their loyalty should be to him.

“I think he is greedy, ambitious and that is why he suddenly presses his “superior” claim,” Finnick says harshly. “The people are fed up with King Coriolanus; the Duke of York sees an opportunity to seize the greatest prize. I think he is a liar, I think he cares only for himself. I hate him. I hate them all.”

His voice breaks a little on the end and he swallows thickly.

“Uncle Boggs has come to summon your father to arms and I...I had to say goodbye.”

He turns to look at her, his eyes wide and wet, and she covers her mouth with her hands.

“I don’t know how long it’ll be until we can see each other again, I don’t even know if I’ll-”

She presses a finger to his lips to silence him, cannot bear to hear him even speak of not coming back. She feels almost as if she’s been tossed off Dunstanburgh’s great ramparts into the ocean below, the sea churning and tossing her against the rocky coast. _Oh Finnick, oh my love, oh oh oh._ She flings her arms around him and he follows suit, pulling her close. They hold each other and her heart weeps in her chest, the great, horrid enormity of what’s coming nearly swallowing her whole.

“I love you,” she whispers into the soft skin of his neck and “I love you too,” he promises.

They don’t bother to say anything else, because really, what could they possibly say to make this better?

* * *

Annie has been saying goodbye to Finnick for most of her life, but never has it been as hard as it is right now.

The sun hangs low in the sky, the whole world bathed in golden light, and Annie feels as if her heart is made of fractured glass, just seconds away from shattering.

“Keep warm, there’s no shame in wearing an extra pair of hose if need be,” Mags tells him and Finnick grins, that easy, boyish grin that makes him look years younger.

“I will,” he promises and Mags smiles, touching his cheek lightly.

“Here, for your journey,” she says and hands him a bag heavy with food. He takes it and Mags is always sending him home laden with too much to eat, a fond smile curling at the corner of Annie’s mouth.

“Be smart,” Mags continues and pats his cheek. Finnick’s smile softens a little and then he pulls her into a hug, catching the old woman off guard. It takes only a moment for her arms to come around him, her expression almost mournful.

“Thank you Mags,” Finnick says, “for everything.”

There is something final in the way he says it, an acknowledgement that this could be the end and Mags sniffles, Annie feeling her heart break a little more.

_Why is this happening?_

_Why is England cursed like this?_

He pulls away with his best, brightest grin and Mags steps back, wiping at her eyes. He turns to Annie and she walks over to him slowly, dreading this goodbye like she has no other. She stops right before him and she is almost afraid to touch him, the dam inside her sure to crumble if she does. She reaches up to untie a ribbon from her hair and then knots it around his wrist, her chest aching.

“Good luck,” she whispers, unable to meet his eyes and his hand comes to rest over hers.

“I’ll come back to you Annie, I promise,” he says and she looks at him, tears starting to drip down her face. She nods and, unable to stop herself, she leans up and kisses him. It is a soft kiss and he rests his forehead against hers when it’s done, their noses touching.

“I love you Annie Cresta,” he says and she swallows a sob.

“And I love you Finnick Odair.”

They stay like that, breathing each other in, and then finally he pulls away, the air around her filled with ice. He mounts his horse and Annie clutches her hands over her heart, her knees desperately wanting to fold up beneath her. He turns back to look at her just once before he leaves and his eyes shine bright, betraying the tears he is fighting to keep down. She stays where she is, watching him until he is out of sight and _please God, keep him safe_.

_Bring him home to me_

* * *

Finnick and Uncle Boggs make one last stop at home before they go off to war, gathering their arms and setting their affairs in order. Finnick stands in his room for what could be the last time and it is a humbling moment, a sobering one.

_this could be goodbye_

He breathes deeply to steady himself and dresses carefully, Annie’s undershirt going on first. He runs his fingers over the good luck charms sewn into the hem and _I can do this_. _We can do this_. He heads downstairs when he’s done, saddle bags packed, and finds his uncle in his study organizing a last few documents. He looks up as Finnick enters, a not quite convincing smile on his mouth.

“Good you’re ready, you’ll be heading out to join the Duke of Somerset’s command,” he says and Finnick frowns.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” he asks and Uncle Boggs shakes his head.

“No, I’ll be staying in Wales; the King wants me to drum up support here,” he answers and Finnick feels a sudden flush of panic. Perhaps Uncle Boggs notices it, for he claps Finnick on the shoulder with a laugh.

“Now you’ll have plenty of opportunity to impress your future father-in-law. You do want him to see how worthy you are of Anne’s hand, don’t you?”

Finnick grins his best grin and nods.

“Of course. I’ll make you proud,” he says and Uncle Boggs suddenly looks sad. He moves his hand to Finnick’s face, a smile not quite managing to touch his mouth.

“I am proud, I always have been,” he says and Finnick swallows, the sudden urge to fling himself on his uncle and never let go swarming over him. He forces it down and tries to smile.

“Good luck,” he says and then Uncle Boggs pulls him into a hug, his arms tight around him. Finnick blinks in shock and then melts, wrapping his arms around his uncle.

“Good luck to you Finnick,” he says fiercely and maybe, just maybe, all he’s been told about real men is a lie. Uncle Boggs is clearly terrified, he clearly cares and yet there is no one in the world Finnick admires more.

Maybe, just maybe, the king is wrong.

(it wouldn’t be the first time)

* * *

Her father leaves soon after and it is a bitter parting.

Whatever his faults, he is her father and she wants nothing but victory and safety for him. He rides off, looking confident and poised on his horse and Annie remains behind at Hedingham with Mags, left to wait and pray and hope.

_Let this war be over soon_

_Let peace prevail_

* * *

And just like that, England goes to war.

* * *

Waiting is the most difficult thing Annie has ever done.

She waits at Hedingham for news that never seems to come, prays as often as she can and she feels stretched so thin she might snap apart. _Please let this war be over soon, please let them come back safe. Please please please_

For over three months she hears nothing, no word, not even a whisper. _Are they alive? Who’s winning? Are they safe?_

Finally, finally finally, a messenger arrives in December. Annie sees him coming from her window and the book she’s holding slips to the floor. She stands abruptly and sprints towards the stairs, Mags’ admonishments chasing after her. Annie ignores them, doesn’t stop even as her feet tangle in her skirts and nearly send her flying, because she can’t, _she can’t_. The winter outside is cold but she doesn’t care as she flings open the doors, the snow almost blue in the moonlight.

_Please let it be good news, please_

The messenger’s fingers tremble with chills as he hands her a letter and her hands shake as she tears it open. The note is in her father’s scrawl, short but to the point.

_The Duke of York is dead._

_We have won._

Annie falls to her knees, the letter clutched to her heart.

_Thank you Lord, thank you thank you thank you_

* * *

The celebrations never seem to end, their great victory cheered and cheered.

The Duke of York is dead.

King Coriolanus is triumphant.

It’s a great time of feasting, drinking, dancing and Finnick is glad, he really is, this war finally over. Still, he can’t quite bring himself to match everyone else’s soaring spirits.

_I just want to go home._

_The war’s done, isn’t it? So why can’t we go home?_

“You look down boy, have a girl,” someone laughs and Finnick looks up from his barely touched mug of ale. A man wearing the Duke of Buckingham’s sigil stands before him, ruddy faced and sweaty. He has a girl under each arm, both of them buxom and scantily clad.

“No, thanks,” Finnick says and the man shrugs. He laughs again and saunters off, Finnick gazing back into his cup with a sigh.

_I already have a girl; I just want to go home to her._

* * *

_1469  
July_

King Louis continues to simmer with rage, the Lancastrian forces are reinvigorated and Finnick looks out his window at the English Channel with only one thought on his mind.

_Soon Annie_

_Soon_

* * *

_1468_

Finnick and her father do not come home and in February she finds out why.

Katniss of York.

They have killed the Duke but his daughter has not given up the fight. She and her cousins slaughter the Lancastrians at the battle of Mortimer’s Cross, revive every Yorkist hope and Boggs is forced to flee for his life.

Annie thanks God for Boggs’ survival but every scrap of news is worse and worse, the Yorkists sweeping through England like the plague, devouring everything they come across. These new Yorkists are young and full of fire, Lancastrians crumbling like kindling beneath their flames.

_It is only rumours_ , Annie tells herself, _I’m sure this only a minor setback. She will fall like her father before her and all will be well again soon._

_I know it will_

* * *

Annie lies in bed at night and stares up at the ceiling, her heart heavy in her chest.

February never seems to end, this cursed month dragging on and on, and Annie just wants it all to be over. _Let the fighting and the battles and the bloodshed be done. England does not deserve this mayhem_. She can feel hatred boiling up inside her, because this is all the Yorkists’ fault. They started this war, they took Finnick and her father away from her, they are the ones staining England red.

_Why would you do this? Is ambition really so important?_

Her thoughts are interrupted by a knock at her door and she frowns. She rolls over and looks at it, because _who could it be so late at night?_ Whoever it is knocks again and Annie pushes herself up. She walks over to the door, still wondering, and opens it. She gasps.

Standing there, looking like something straight out of a dream, is Finnick.

Annie flings herself on him immediately and his arms come around her, lifting her off her feet for a moment. He buries his face in her shoulder and she squeezes him, tears starting to gather in her eyes.

“Finnick, oh God Finnick,” she mumbles, too overwhelmed to say anything more and he hugs her even closer.

“Annie Annie, I missed you Annie, so much, so much.”

“You’re alive, oh thank God you’re alive,” she all but sobs and they sway a little, his own voice choked.

“I had to see you, I couldn’t stay away. I love you Annie, God I love you.”

Her heart shudders and she kisses him, the taste of him just as intoxicating as she remembers. He kisses her back, more ardently than he ever has before and she feels like she is melting in his embrace. She wraps her arms around his neck and all those months of missing him come rushing back to her, a desperate need to be as close to him as possible springing up inside her. His hands are warm through her nightgown and he pulls her up against him, so close she swears she can feel his heart beating. They stumble backwards into the door and it suddenly occurs to Annie just what they’re doing. Anyone could wander by and see them and worse, she’s dressed in nothing but her nightgown, the material thin and flimsy. Her face burns and she pulls back reluctantly. She looks at him and he is sweaty, his hair blown back by the wind and he looks tired, exhausted really, but there’s something underneath that, something almost like fear. Annie feels her chest tighten.

“Come inside,” she murmurs, pulling him into her room and shutting the door. He threads his fingers through hers and squeezes, a tingle shooting up her arm. She reaches forward and strokes his cheek, his eyes closing as he leans into her touch.

“How are you here?” she asks and he sighs.

“There’s a big battle coming, some of the men think it’ll be the final one. They think it’ll end the war for good. I couldn’t...I had to see you again, just in case.”

Annie feels fear flare up inside her and she presses her face into his chest, her arm pulling him close.

“Don’t say that,” she whispers, terror stinging her words and he breathes her in, his hands running over her back. They stay like that for a moment and sink into each other’s arms.

“How did you get away?” she asks.

“I volunteered to deliver a message; I had to find some way to see you.”

“Do you have to leave soon?”

“Tomorrow morning at the latest,” he says and Annie holds him tighter, dreading goodbye.

“Stay with me tonight,” she murmurs and he pulls back to look at her. His green eyes are wide and Annie meets his gaze levelly, her cheeks burning. He swallows.

“Okay,” he says, voice a little wavery, and Annie leans up to kiss him. _How can I say goodbye tomorrow? How can I let you leave for a war you might not come home from?_ He kisses her back, his mouth warm and her body tingles with every touch of his tongue. She wants to stay like this forever, wants to kiss him until the morning hours but she knows they can’t.

“You need to rest,” she whispers to his lips and he nods. She lets go of him reluctantly and climbs back into bed, her legs folded beneath her. He stands for a moment in the center of her room, a flush creeping up his neck as he looks at her bed. She blushes.

“You should...you should get comfortable,” she mumbles and feels her stomach swoop. Did she really just ask him to get undressed?

“Mags might have my head,” he jokes and Annie shakes her head.

“She’s visiting family.”

Finnick swallows again and Annie thinks maybe she should give him some privacy, but she can’t look away. He undoes the clasp of his cape, the brooch holding it together a gift from her when they were nought but children. He bends over to pull off his boots and her heart starts to beat very fast. _Stop, nothing’s going on here, just sleeping._ He takes off his belt and then pauses, her temperature rising steadily.

“That doublet doesn’t look like it’ll be good for sleeping,” she says and his face starts to turn red.

“I don’t mind, I wouldn’t want you to...to feel uncomfortable,” he says and Annie tries to stop from flushing.

“It’s fine,” she says, voice higher than she’d like, “I’ve seen you shirtless before.”

(of course, neither one of them brings up that swimming and sharing a bed aren’t quite the same thing)

He nods and removes his doublet, then the shirt underneath, her shirt, the one she’d made him for his birthday, and Annie inhales deeply. She has always known he was gorgeous, the handsomest man she’d ever met but she wasn’t quite prepared for this. It was a little less than two years ago when she saw him shirtless last and somehow in that time he’s managed to become even more perfect. Her body starts to flood with liquid heat as she looks at him, the sturdy shoulders she very much wants to kiss, the muscled chest and rippling stomach she desperately wants to touch. He is beautiful, truly, and there is something squirming around inside of her. She clears her throat.

“Were you at Mortimer’s Cross?” she asks, needing to take her mind from the chaos inside of her. He slumps.

“No. Uncle Boggs was.”

“I heard, thank God he’s alright.”

He nods slowly.

“Yes, but we lost a lot of good men. The Duke of Buckingham and his son were two of the casualties.”

Annie covers her mouth with her hand.

“Oh no,” she says softly and he nods again, his whole body looking weighed down.

“Darius, he’s the new Duke of Buckingham. And he’s chosen the Yorkists.”

Annie thinks of little Darius and gasps.

“If this keeps happening, if we lose any more allies...I don’t...I don’t know what we’ll do. We could _lose_ ,” he says and there’s so much fear in his voice, so much worry she feels as if she may weep. _That can’t be true, can it?_ He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands. Annie bites her lip and stares at his back, helplessness welling up inside her. _What do I say?_ _How do I make this better?_ She scoots over to him and places her hands on his shoulders and squeezes, his whole body tense. She leans her head on his, an ache in her heart. _Oh Finnick, oh my sweet Finnick._ Without really thinking about it, she bends down and presses a kiss to his shoulder blade. His skin is warm under her lips and he stiffens, the muscles beneath her fingers tightening.

“Annie,” he says a little roughly, but not unhappily, and she nuzzles his back, breathing in that perfectly Finnick scent, like summer and ocean breezes.

“I love you, Finnick,” she whispers and kisses her way up his spine. His breathing is heavy as her lips reach the back of his neck and she wraps her arms around him, her fingers dancing over the hard muscles of his stomach. She hugs him tight, chest against his back and a shiver skiddles over her skin, something warm starting to bubble in her stomach. She presses her mouth just beneath his ear and he inhales sharply, turning his head to look at her.

“Annie,” he says raggedly and she feels a fire in her stomach, her name so much better on his tongue than anyone else’s. His eyes are bright with the same heat she can feel in her blood and she drowns in them, yearning starting to beat within her. She leans forward and kisses him, the taste of him sweeter than any wine. His lips, his tongue, they answer hers with passion and she can feel her lower body tightening, that yearning spilling through her veins. He turns a little more and his arms come around her, one snug around her waist and the other tangling in her hair, tilting her head back and deepening a kiss she could never have imagined being any deeper. There are shivers beneath her skin and he drags her up against his chest, the solid feel of him making her burn in the most magnificent of ways. Her little ring around his neck presses into her and she almost wants to weep for love of him. She wraps her arms around him instead and traces over the skin of his back and she needs to be closer, so much closer. Annie shifts until his thigh is between her legs, a spiral of desire sparkling through her. She moves a little more and the friction is delicious, his breath hitching. His arms tighten around her and then her lips move down his neck, down to where his pulse beats beneath his skin.

“Annie,” he pants and even without words, she knows what he is asking.

“We can’t do this,” she says suddenly, her voice sounding oddly far away. She pulls back and looks at him, his face flushed and his eyes hazy, and she knows she’s right, logic and sense creeping back into her mind. If he doesn’t come back after the battle and anyone found out about tonight, she’d be ruined. And if he left her with child...It would be the height of folly to do anything at all with him and Annie knows it well. She brushes the hair from his forehead and he closes his eyes and _I love you, God above, I love you_.

“I know,” he murmurs, “I know we shouldn’t.”

She nods and presses her forehead to his, her blood still screaming for him. She reaches up and takes his face in her hands, her heart thudding beneath her ribs.

“You are coming back to me, Finnick,” she says and he nods, fingers squeezing her without thought.

“Always,” he promises and Annie knows it, knows this will not be their last night together.

“Then I have nothing to fear,” she says and he opens his eyes, her favourite pair of eyes in all the world. She kisses his chin, the tip of his nose and both his cheeks. He swallows.

“There is no sin in being with one’s betrothed, many consider it as valid as a marriage,” he murmurs against her heated skin and squeezes her again.

“That’s true,” she agrees, rubbing her nose against his. They stay that way, breathing each other in and out and there is a choice to be made here, except of course, that she has already made it.

“I...I am not afraid Finnick, I know you will not abandon me, I know you will come home to me,” she says and his fingers dig into her waist, the pressure making her shiver. “I trust you, I love you and I want this if...if you do,” she mumbles and he laughs a little breathlessly, the feel of it tickling her face.

“I want this, God I want this,” he groans and she nods, because so does she, that wanting sizzling in her bones.

“Then love me,” she whispers and kisses him slowly, feels her blood rising with desire. “Love me like it’s our wedding night and we have forever ahead of us. Because we do, we do.”

Whatever hesitation they’d had melts away and he kisses her back, a searing kiss that turns her limbs to liquid. She shifts so she is sitting astride his lap and his breath hitches again, a shiver running up her spine. He pulls her flush against him and their chests press together, nothing between them save the flimsy material of her nightgown. There is a further tightening in her lower body, a cascade of warmth through her blood and she wants him to touch her everywhere, to feel him on every inch of her skin. She pulls back to kiss his neck again, to kiss his chest and feels his heart beating beneath her lips. He shudders and drags her back up to his mouth, his hands running up her sides. They graze her breasts and a delicious frisson snakes over her, passion screaming in her blood. His hands slip beneath her nightgown and find her thighs, each and every touch fanning the flame inside of until it becomes an inferno. Without thinking, without any thought at all, she reaches down and grasps the hem of her dress, pulling it up over her head and tossing it aside. Finnick sucks in a breath and then stares at her, his gaze hungry with desire.

“God Annie,” he says hoarsely and then she pulls him against her, bare skin to bare skin. She feels like she is about to boil over with need and she isn’t sure there are words for the feeling of her breasts pressed up against his chest. There is nothing between them now except his hose and _touch me_ she wants to beg, _touch me everywhere_. Perhaps he can read her mind, for his hands move down her back, slide up underneath her, her whole body quivering, and then they come around to run over her thighs again. Then they are on her sides, his thumbs rubbing along her stomach and _higher, higher_. She feels dizzy and his hands go up, up, until the heat of them on her breasts makes her gasp into his mouth. He is tentative at first, squeezing her breasts softly and she hisses, her head falling back. He pinches her nipples between his fingers and she grabs his chain, the ring cutting into her palm.

“Finnick,” she breathes and he shudders slightly, her other hand ghosting down his back and then to his thigh. He leans forward and kisses her collarbone, then lower, lower, until his mouth finds her chest. She squeezes his thigh and he kisses her breasts all over, a moan slipping past her lips. He takes her nipple in his mouth, the rasp of his tongue over her making lights burst behind her eyes.

“Finnick,” she pleads, not entirely sure what it is she’s begging for, and he stands abruptly, lifting her with him. He lies her down on the bed and stares at her for a moment, his chest heaving. He steps back, her body already aching for his touch. He never takes his eyes off of her, his gaze scorching, as he throws off his hose and breeches and she inhales sharply. He stands naked before her and she can feel a blush stain her cheeks. She stares at him, drinks in his beautiful hair, his handsome face, the strong shoulders, his heaving chest, the well defined stomach, the firm thighs and then _him_ , thick and hard between his legs. Her blush deepens but she doesn’t avert her eyes and she lifts her arms, beckoning him closer. He comes and then he is hovering over her, his legs tangled with hers. His mouth is urgent on hers and she pulls him closer gently by his chain, that ring clutched in her hand. She touches his chest and then drags her hand down, her nails scraping lightly over his skin, past his stomach until she finds _him_. He makes a guttural sort of sound in his throat and she’s not entirely sure what she’s doing, but judging by his reactions, she is doing something right. He is so hot beneath her fingers and he mumbles something incoherent into her shoulder, the feel of his breath making her shiver.

“Annie,” he moans, “ _Annie_ ” and she’s not entirely sure what’s supposed to happen next, but she feels as if there’s a great big hole inside of her, a chasm she needs him to fill. He kisses her then, his passion making her weak, and she wonders if he knows what to do. Her need for him is fierce but neither of them have done this before, but then, boys talk, he’s surely heard from someone.

“Are you-” he starts to ask and “ _Yes_ ,” because whatever comes next, whatever he’s meant to do, she wants it, God does she want it.

“I love you, Annie,” he swears, gently removing her hand and twining their fingers.

“I love you too, Finnick,” she promises and he takes a steadying breath. He hesitates for just a moment more and Annie pulls his head down for a kiss, can feel his need quivering inside him like it is in her.

“Make love to me, Finnick,” she breathes to his mouth and he does, God Almighty, _he does_.

* * *

The morning comes too soon.

Milky streaks of dawn light pour into her room and across her bed, Annie’s heart quaking in her chest. _Not yet, please not yet._ She knows he cannot stay and she would never ask him to, but she is not ready for goodbye. _I need more time, please please, I need more time._ He breathes evenly, the sheets are tangled around his waist and Annie struggles to hold in a sob, her fingers shaking as she strokes the hair at the back of his neck. _Please not yet_. She presses her other hand flat against his chest, needing to feel his heart still beating with life and it thumps up her arm, both reassuring and terrifying. _This could be the last time..._

Finnick wakes slowly and Annie wishes she could freeze time, wishes she could turn back the sun until it was night again and he could stay safe in her arms. His fingers caress her lower back and he leans his forehead against hers, breathing deeply.

“Annie,” he whispers and there is so much in that one word, so much she feels as if she may fall to pieces. Tears gather in her eyes and _why Yorkists? Why are you doing this to us?_ He places his hand over hers and then kisses her slowly, so so slow, like he is trying to engrave this very moment into his memory forever. She closes her eyes, kisses him back and _God, please God, let this moment last_.

But it can’t, not forever.

Finnick pulls away, her whole body immediately cold, and climbs out of bed. Annie sits up slowly as he gathers up his scattered clothes, the memory of last night stirring her blood ever so faintly. _Did that really happen? It almost feels like a dream_.

Annie tugs the blankets tight around herself, as if to armour herself against the heartbreak she cannot escape and wishes everything was a dream, wishes she could wake up and there would be no war at all. _Why are we living in a nightmare?_ He starts to get dressed and she watches, her eyes tracing over every part of him. She had tried last night and she tries again now to memorise every inch of him, to burn his image deep into her heart. _I love you Finnick Odair, I love you so much._

He sits down on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots and she stares at his back, a great torrent of feeling rising up within her. _Oh Finnick, oh God Finnick._ She lurches forward and hugs him, her face pressed against his neck. She gives up on holding back her tears and sobs into his skin, her whole body shuddering. His hands come over hers, his shoulders tremble and _this isn’t fair, it isn’t fair_. She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, crying and shaking, but she knows he has to go. And she has to let him.

She pulls back finally, his doublet soaked through with tears. She wipes uselessly at her eyes and he breathes in deeply, his shoulders squaring. He stands and for a moment she wonders if he is just going to leave, to try and spare them both the heartbreak of goodbye. But then he turns, his cheeks wet and Annie aches, deep down into her soul.

“I...” he starts, so many emotions running over his face and she feels them all, each one burning in her chest. “Annie, I...”

He surges forward, abandoning his words, and he takes her head in his hands, dragging her up against him. He kisses her, kisses her like he never has before, not even last night. This kiss is searing, blazing, forever and she clings to him, her nails digging into his skin.

“I love you Annie, I’m coming back to you. I swear to God, I’ll be back,” he whispers fiercely, his lips brushing hers with every word. She nods.

“I know. I love you Finnick, I love you so so much. I’ll be waiting.”

He breathes her in, every part of them pressed together and then he pulls back, lifting her hand to his lips. He kisses her betrothal ring and she feels her heart shake, their eyes meeting in a look she hopes will never end.

And then he is gone.

She watches through blurry eyes as he hurries out the door, her arms hugging herself close.

_Good luck Finnick_

_May God favour you my love_

_I’ll wait for you_

_Forever_

* * *

Finnick climbs up onto his horse and looks back at Annie’s window one last time, a surge of courage filling him up.

_You are the love of my life, Annie Cresta, I’m coming home to you_

_This is not goodbye, my dearest heart_

_I’ll be back_

_I swear I’ll be back_

* * *

_1470_

_Two years_ , Annie thinks as the wind tears at her hair, _two years it’s been Finnick_.

_Is the wait finally over?_

(Annie knows it’s foolish to hope, knows Haymitch’s words could mean so many other things, but hope is all she has)

(so hope she does)


	9. channel of treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> is this really how it ends?

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_part two_  
_the thorns of lancaster_  
_chapter one_  
_channel of treason_

“No, Madge. We’re the rebels.”

(even years from now, she will remember this moment perfectly)

(she will remember the way pre-dawn light had cast shadows in Haymitch’s eyes, she will remember the sound of nervous horses and Marvel shouting “No, no! What is wrong with you?” She will even remember the taste of the wind; mud, smoke and rank, sour fear)

(because this, this changes everything)

* * *

 

The whole world spins to a stop, everyone and everything frozen in place as Madge sinks deep into too many terrible thoughts.

_What does that mean?_

_Why are we running?_

_Are we going into exile?_

_What’s happening?_

_Where’s Gale? Is he alright?_

All those questions crowd up her throat but before any can find their way out, Haymitch grabs her shoulders and shakes her.

“We need to go Madge _, now_.”

She looks up at him and _knows_ , all the way in her bones, that he is right. He has never looked more terrified than he does right now and certainty lodges inside of her, sharp and cold like a shard of ice.

_This is just like when we fled Bedford Castle. The enemy is coming, we have to get away_

She nods, to Haymitch or perhaps to herself, and clambers up onto the nearest horse. She can feel herself hardening, can feel her blood turning to steel and it’s not that she isn't scared or angry, she is, oh God she is, but rising above that is a thought, a desire, a drive that drowns out everything else.

_live_

_I am not going to die here_

_I am going to survive and when this is over, I’ll find you Gale, I promise_

* * *

 

(A rat-faced squire with twitchy eyes and sallow skin shoves a last little coffer into their litter and Glimmer wants to snap at him, wants to demand to know exactly what’s going on. She watches him with narrowed eyes, her nails sinking into her round stomach as his skin turns blotchy from fear.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get on a horse! _We need to go!_ ” Marvel bellows from somewhere outside and the squire scurries off, tail between his legs. Glimmer loses her chance to talk to him but she doesn’t really need to. She thinks of the frantic way Marvel had roused her, the wild terror painted all over his and Haymitch’s faces and the desperation in this flight and _knows_.

_we lost_

Glimmer drops her head into her hands and sobs)

* * *

And so they ride.

They fly across the countryside and the wind howls violently in their faces, its moaning scream mixing with the rampage of hooves and the thunder beat of her heart. Dark, bloated clouds hover over them threateningly and Madge holds on to that one flame in her mind, clings to it with both hands.

_live_

She cannot afford to falter, not now. She is teetering on the edge of a cliff but she will not fall.

_live live live_

* * *

 

By the time they reach the coast, there is already a ship waiting for them.

It bobs and rocks as steel gray waves pound the harbour, its mast towering up to the furious black clouds above. Madge looks at it and beneath the iron shell she’s built around herself, she feels a bit like that ship, tossing and turning and about to be sick all over herself.

_We’re the rebels_

_What does that mean?_

_Is Gale safe?_

_Please, please let him be safe_

She barely feels the frigid wind as it cuts through her and Haymitch leaps off his horse, barking orders in every direction. His words are swallowed by the rising tempest but his tone is harsh and their squires scurry about, corralling the horses up the gangplank and hauling their belongings aboard. Annie too is pressed into service, her arms laden with bundles and deep down Madge simmers with anger, her fingers aching from clutching the reins too tight.

_What are we running from?_

The litter lurches to a stop beside her and Marvel shoves the coffer he’s holding into a squire’s arms, nearly bowling the poor boy over. Madge watches her step-brother charge over and wrench open the litter door, his eyes wild and his movements jerky. His fingers shake as he tugs his step-mother out and she stumbles down the stairs, her face pale and worried.

“Marvel-” she starts to ask but he ignores her, his face dangerous as he glares over his shoulder at the road.

“Come along, Glimmer,” he snaps, his impatience not quite managing to mask the fear in his tone, “we need to go!”

 _They’re coming._ _I wonder how close they are,_ Madge thinks and her stomach clenches, spider cracks running over her armour. The carriage rattles as the wind picks up and Glimmer moans pitifully from within.

“Come on!” Marvel nearly shouts and Glimmer appears in the doorway, her face ashen. She has one arm wrapped around her bulging belly and the other clutches the litter as if she does not trust her legs to hold. There is sweat on her brow, tear streaks on her cheeks and pain in her eyes, but still she manages to shoot Marvel a reproachful glare.

“This...is a terrible idea. A woman in my condition should not be forced on such a...a _horrid_ journey,” she says angrily, her breathing heavy and Marvel grabs her by the shoulders and lifts her down.

“Glimmer,” he says firmly, his hands squeezing her arms, “we do not have time for this. We have no choice, if we stay here, we will die.”

Glimmer’s eyes widen, all her bravado withers and Madge feels his words like a punch to the gut, all the air leaving her lungs.

_It really is exile then_

Glimmer is gray faced, her eyes glassy with tears and Marvel hooks an arm around her waist and escorts her onto the ship, Margaret trailing in their wake. Madge slips off her horse with ice in her blood and her skirt billows around her, her heart cracking against her ribs like a hammer. _Exile, exile, we are fleeing into exile_. She stands there on English soil for what could be the very last time and her protective shell starts to fracture, those spidering cracks widening and growing until great chunks of her shield tumble down to the dirt below. The gaping holes left behind allow fury and fear to come leaking out and she wants to grab Marvel and shake him, claw at him until he tells her exactly what’s gone wrong.

_Are the Lancastrians back? Have angry Yorkists deposed Katniss?_

_Or even worse, have you and Haymitch attempted your own coup?_

She closes her eyes with the throbbing ache of that thought and does all she can to regain her previous calm, the urge to do whatever necessary to survive warring with all her other desperate, seething emotions.

_Relax, this isn't over, not yet._

_(_ but beneath all that she thinks,

_are you coming with us Gale? Or are you the one chasing us?)_

“What are you doing? Do you want to be left behind?”

Madge opens her eyes to Marvel’s snarling face, a vein popping in his temple. He does not wait for an answer but grabs her by the wrist and drags her roughly to the ship, the docks creaking beneath his heavy steps. He marches quickly, his head twisting around again and again to look behind her and she wonders what they’ll do if the enemy does show up before they’re ready. _Is this how it all ends?_

_No, no I won’t let it_

He drags her up the ramp and she thinks her skin might be bruising, a heady tide of feeling rising higher and higher within her. The deck sways beneath her feet and she’s never been on a ship before, never gone anywhere outside of England’s borders. She looks out over the rail at her home, the only one she’s ever known and the deranged urge to shove Marvel overboard nearly swallows her whole. _Whatever is happening, this is your fault._

“See to the Countess, she is unwell,” he orders and then shoves her down a flight of stairs. Unprepared, she stumbles, trips and then careens into the far wall at the bottom. She is left winded and Marvel turns away without a word, his footsteps drowned out by shouting and bellowing winds. The ship rocks and Madge starts to find it difficult to breathe, air coming and going in tiny gasps. Her nails dig into the wall and she pushes her face into the wood, a scream building in her lungs. The remaining bits of her armour start to crumble, too fragile to withstand the onslaught of her terror, her rage, her despair. She is like a tiny ship lost in a storm, buffeted on all sides by hopelessness, fear, anger and she can’t do this, she can’t. They are leaving England, perhaps forever, and she has never been so scared in all her life. There is scalding bile in her throat, tears in her eyes and wouldn’t it be so much easier just to fall here and cry?

 _Give up, give up_ , chants the fear in her mind and she wants to, oh she wants to but then, then, rising in her, not like the sun but like a burning rod of iron in her heart, she thinks _no, NO, I need to stay calm. I need to focus on living through this. Nothing else matters, not now._

_Survival, that’s all._

_I will survive_

_I will_

It is not bravery but something else that comes over her, something hard and focused and determined. She claws her way out of the dark mire in her heart and inhales as deeply as she can, stomping her fear down as far as she can. _Come on, come on, don't give up now_. Her legs quake with every dip of the ship but she summons up her flagging courage and drapes it over herself like a king’s mantle, dredging up every last ounce of strength she has. _You can do this, be brave, brave, brave, brave._ She grits her teeth and her shield is made of paper rather than stone, but it is enough, it has to be. Her arms shake as she pushes off the wall, safe again (at least for now) in a fortress of _survive, survive, survive_.

She moves into the narrow hallway and follows the sound of Glimmer’s distress to a well furnished room, Glimmer, her mother and Annie already inside. Madge steps through the door and notices Glimmer immediately, propped up by a mountain of pillows on the large bed against the far wall. Her face is blurry with tears, her hand rubs erratically over her swollen stomach and her skin is flushed, a sweaty sheen making it shimmer. Madge’s mother sits beside her, Glimmer’s other hand squeezed between both of hers.

“It’s alright sweetheart, you just need to rest. You’ve had a rough journey, but a good sleep will put you to rights,” she tries to soothe but Glimmer shakes her head, tears dribbling down her pale cheeks.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” she sobs and Madge feels a pickaxe crack into her delicate castle walls.

“No, no of course not, darling. Your dear Marvel will take good care of you, worry not,” her mother insists, Glimmer whimpers and Madge supposes it is a trick of the light that makes it seem like Glimmer’s stomach is rippling. That chink in her shield widens as she stares a little too long, uneasiness starting to bubble in her gut. _Stop._ She shakes her head a little viciously and looks around the room, determined not to falter now. There is a writing desk, a little table and a stool by the door, but it is Annie that grabs Madge’s gaze. She kneels in the corner; her hands pressed together, her eyes closed and her lips moving quickly, reciting silent words. Madge stares at her for a moment and _oh, she’s praying_. Madge thinks maybe she should too, but she has no idea what to pray for. Gale may be the enemy now, she cannot pray for her own safety if it means his undoing.

_Oh Gale, please please be okay_

Her heart gives an awful tug and she bites her tongue to drive away the pain, locking him away somewhere deep even as she wraps his locket in her palm. _I cannot worry about that now, later, later, later later later._ She sinks down onto the stool by the door and closes her eyes, Gale and all her love and worry lingering just below the surface. She breathes deeply, slowly, her stomach rolling with every rock of the ship.

_Survive_

_Be brave_

Heavy bootsteps come from the corridor and then Haymitch enters, his face drooping as his eyes sweep over Glimmer. Her mother looks up at him, her expression turning to stone.

“Where are we going?” she asks, her voice hard, and Haymitch drags his gaze away from Glimmer.

“To Calais. I am still Captain there, they will be loyal.”

Madge looks at him and _France, we are going to France._ _Everything was finally going right and now we are exiles, fleeing to France._

_We are cursed, aren’t we?_

* * *

 

The answer, it appears, is _yes_.

Shortly after they leave port the sky opens above them, unleashing a violent storm, and Madge has no idea how long it’s been, but she knows their crossing is taking far longer than it should. She feels weak from emptying the contents of her stomach (several times) and waves crash against the hull, the ship hurling from side to side. She clutches at the walls to try and keep her stool from toppling over, Glimmer sobs and moans and Madge can hear booming thunder and muffled shouts from the men up on deck, trying so desperately to keep them all afloat.

_Maybe Glimmer was right, maybe we are going to die here_

Madge has heard stories of ships sunk in wicked storms, of some that were turned around and thrust back at England and both would mean death for them, wouldn’t they? Death by sea or death at the hands of whomever is chasing them; she cannot decide which would be a kinder fate.

_I shouldn’t have to_

_This isn't right_

Another raging crack of thunder echoes from the sky, so loud Madge thinks the ship must be shattering to pieces and then it lurches furiously, throwing her to the floor. Her shell of strength, already collapsing from seasickness, Glimmer’s weeping and her own boiling emotions, simply disintegrates and she screams in shock, landing heavily on her hands and knees. Glimmer screeches from somewhere above her and Madge looks up to see Annie sprawled nearby, her expression winded. The ship tosses again before they can stand and Madge is launched sideways, falling with a cry onto her side. She gasps and digs her nails into the wood beneath her as the ship rocks dangerously yet again, but it does no good. Her fingers are ripped away from the floor and she rolls onto her back, shrieking in surprise as she splashes into icy water. She bounces up and water continues to spill out over the floor, pooling all around her.

“Close the door!” her mother shouts and another wave smashes into them, pouring even more water down the stairs and sloshing across their room. Madge stands on shaking legs and staggers forward, only to be sent pinwheeling into the wall when the ship tilts ominously to the left. She forces herself onwards, nearly slips in all the seawater, and then grabs firm hold of the door. She tries to close it but it swings open wildly with another furious lurch of the ship and Madge goes with it. She whacks into the wall with a thud and grits her teeth, every part of her aching. Her arms tremble as she shoves the door shut, her fingers fumbling over the latch to lock it. She grips it with sweaty hands as the ship is hit by yet another raging wave and Glimmer’s sobbing fills her ears, everything else muffled by the heavy door.

“It hurts, it hurts, I want it to stop,” she bawls and Madge turns around unsteadily, her knees knocking together. The ship bounces unhappily and Madge goes stumbling into the bed, the footboard digging into her stomach. Annie picks herself up from the floor, her clothes dripping and then Glimmer shrieks in sudden agony, her whole body scrunching up. This is worse than her usual sounds of pain and Madge meets Annie’s gaze, both of them wide eyed with fear. Glimmer leans her head back again, tears spilling down her face. She clutches her belly and shudders, Madge’s knuckles turning white as she grips the bedposts.

“It hurts, I’m all wet, I want to go home. Let me off, let me off,” Glimmer weeps and Margaret’s whole face is washed with sudden horror. Madge tilts her head because _how is the bed wet?_ The water is certainly all over the floor, seeping still from under the door _, but there’s no way it could have gotten up onto the bed, could it?_ She looks at her mother in question but she is feeling around desperately beneath Glimmer, her expression tense. She lifts her hand and it glistens, her face losing all its colour.

“Get Haymitch,” she says and Madge tilts her head.

“Why?”

“Get Haymitch!” she orders, the terror in her voice cracking like a whip and Madge turns without thinking. She runs over and yanks open the door, an icy blast of wind slapping her across the face. She winces but then pushes on, slipping and sliding down the hall to the stairs. The men are louder now, the thunder deafening and she scrambles up the steps, pitching forward when the ship rocks yet again. Salt water gets up her nose and in her mouth as more water cascades down the stairs and she coughs, sputtering as her throat burns. She pushes herself up slightly and crawls the rest of the way up, her mother’s face flooding her mind.

_Something has gone horribly wrong_

Madge hauls herself up at the top, her arms vibrating as she grips a banister. The rain lashes down painfully, biting like ice into her skin, and the whole ship judders, her heart bouncing nearly out of her throat. The deck is chaos, men running and shouting and doing everything they can to keep them alive, the sea waging war with a vengeance. There is nothing but water in every direction, dark and heaving and furious, foaming waves rising and falling on all sides. Madge backs into a wall in frozen fear as a wave crashes onto the deck and she flinches, her heart throbbing in her throat.

_Oh God, oh God_

“What the hell are you doing here?” Marvel bellows, his fingers digging painfully into her arms and she turns to look at him, words failing her. His hair is plastered to his head, his eyes wild and a fork of lightning cuts across the sky, everything turning a bright, hot white.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts again and shakes her roughly. Madge forces herself to remember.

“Haymitch,” she begins and Marvel leans in, the insanity around them drowning her out.

“Glimmer,” she yells, “something’s gone wrong with Glimmer!”

Marvel’s eyes go wide and terror stretches over his face, all his features drenched in it. He shoves Madge aside, nearly sends her toppling over a barrel, and flies down the stairs, Madge hot on his heels. They sprint into the room and Glimmer greets them with a scream of pain, the tortured sound stopping them in their tracks.

“What’s going on?” Marvel shouts over Glimmer’s desperate sobs and his step-mother looks at him with hollow eyes.

“How long until we reach Calais?”

“Why, what-”

“How long?” she repeats urgently and Marvel swallows, casting a terrified look at Glimmer.

“Soon, we should be able to see it any moment.”

Her mother nods.

“What’s going on?” Marvel demands again and Madge sags back against the wall.

“The baby is-” her mother pauses a moment as Glimmer screams again, before collapsing with a wail, “the baby is coming, but something is wrong. We need a midwife and a doctor.”

Marvel shakes his head in denial and Madge looks at the bed, her heart stopping. There is something dark and wet on the sheets, is it...is it blood?

“It’s not time,” Marvel says, his voice edged with hysteria, “it’s not time, we should have at least a week-”

“This is not a journey for a pregnant woman, and certainly not one so near her time,” her mother interrupts with an accusing look and Marvel shakes his head again, like he cannot comprehend what she’s saying.

“It’s not...it’s not time,” he repeats feebly and then a dull _boom_ sounds from somewhere above them. Madge looks over at Annie in confusion, Marvel jerks his eyes up at the ceiling and _boom boom boom_.

_What in the world...?_

“It’s Calais,” Marvel whispers and Madge furrows her brow.

“What?”

“It’s Calais,” he repeats as another _boom_ sounds, “they’re firing on us.”

His face has lost all its colour, his voice is horrified and Madge presses her hands to her mouth.

 _They will be loyal_ , _Haymitch said_ , _they will be loyal_

_Oh God, oh God_

Marvel dashes from the room and Madge sinks slowly to the floor, someone’s ragged sobs drowning out the _boom, boom_ above.

 _We_ are _going to die here_

_God help us all_

“Madge,” her mother says and Madge ignores it, lost in hopelessness.

“ _Madge_ , get up,” her mother commands sternly and Madge turns in surprise. “If Calais is firing on us, we will need to land somewhere else. That will take time; we will have to deal with Glimmer ourselves.”

Madge stares at her mother with an open mouth and Glimmer whimpers, too weak it seems to scream. Margaret throws off her cloak and rolls up her sleeves, her face determined.

“Can you stand?” she asks and Glimmer shakes her head frailly.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she moans and Margaret nods.

“It’s alright sweetheart, it’ll be alright,” she says and then turns to Madge, “I’ll need your help, both of you.”

Madge gets up shakily and Annie nods, her face impossibly white. The ship continues to rock, though gentler now, but Madge hardly notices, even the distant thumping of cannons fading into the back of her mind. Glimmer is having her baby, but something is wrong and every other thought is driven away, a sickly, cold fear clotting up her veins.

_What are we going to do?_

“Anne, I need you to fetch us as much water and clean linen as you can,” her mother says, eyes fixed on Glimmer and Annie nods quickly. She stumbles out of the tilted room and Glimmer gives a low moan, her eyes screwed up tight. Madge trembles and her mother must notice, for she places a gentle hand on Madge’s cheek.

“Courage my love, Glimmer and the baby need us to be strong.”

Madge swallows and nods, tying her bravery tight around herself.

“What...what do you need me to do?”

“Keep her calm for now,” her mother says and Madge thinks that might be impossible, Glimmer letting out a wretched sob. Regardless, Madge steps over and sits on the edge of the bed, the smell of blood and vomit making her nauseous. She takes Glimmer’s hand, squeezes the clammy fingers and strokes the sweaty hair from her forehead.

“Hush, Glimmer, hush, it’ll be alright,” she murmurs and Glimmer shakes her head faintly, before her face scrunches up in pain. Her whole body spasms, her nails cutting deep into Madge’s skin.

“Make it stop,” Glimmer begs and Madge feels tears burn her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, it’ll be over soon,” she promises and hopes it’s true.

“Alright, sweetheart, I need your knees up, come on now, you can do it,” her mother coaxes and she gently bends Glimmer’s legs, knees pointing to the ceiling. She prises them apart, pushes Glimmer’s skirts up around her waist and then cuts away her underthings, the material soaked through with blood. Glimmer whimpers and Madge feels her head spin, the sight of so much blood making her lightheaded. Another shudder travels over Glimmer’s body and she only groans, the end of it trailing off into a sob. Madge’s mother looks at them with consternation and then peers between Glimmer’s legs, her expression becoming somehow bleaker. Annie returns then, a jug of water in one hand and a pile of linen in the other. She hurries over to Madge’s mother and then freezes in horror when she sees what’s happening between Glimmer’s legs, her expression suddenly faint. She turns quickly as if she might be sick and Madge feels ill herself, the constant bobbing of the ship making everything so much worse.

“Courage now girls,” her mother murmurs and Annie shakes herself. Madge takes a rag from her, dips it in the jug and mops at Glimmer’s feverish skin, red blotches colouring the sickly gray of it. Annie and Margaret get to work doing something between Glimmer’s legs and Madge does all she can to keep Glimmer comfortable, whispering soothing nonsense and squeezing her hand.

_Please God, let this turn out alright_

“It’s time,” her mother pronounces and Madge is both relieved and terrified. She turns to look but her mother’s expression is ghastly and something is wrong, terribly wrong.

“Which of you has the smallest hands?” she asks and Madge frowns. Annie’s are more slender certainly, but Madge’s are probably smaller overall.

“Mine,” she says and her mother nods.

“Alright, come here. Anne, see to Glimmer.”

Madge stands and Annie hurries to fill her place, her skin slightly green. Madge goes to her mother and claps a hand to her mouth in horror. She had known that whatever lay between Glimmer’s legs would not be pleasant, but she hadn’t been ready for this, the dark, oozing blood, the slime, the... _everything_. Her stomach tosses violently and her mother grabs her arm.

“The baby is stuck; you will have to pull it out.”

Madge looks at her mother in numb shock and shakes her head, unable to form words.

“You have the smallest hands, it has to be you. Be firm but gentle, we don't want to injure the baby if possible. But it needs to come out,” her mother says and there is no room for argument. The baby must come out, if it doesn’t...if it doesn’t it will die and Glimmer right along with it.

Madge clenches her teeth and wishes she were anywhere else in the world right now, but she isn't. She’s here and Glimmer needs her.

_I have to do this_

She wants to close her eyes but doesn’t and she reaches in, unable to stop herself from gagging. Everything is hot and wet and slimy, a wave of dizziness threatening to overtake her. She grasps at what she hopes is the baby and tries to manoeuvre it as gently as she can, but it is both slippery and stuck, her stomach rolling unhappily.

“You can do it,” her mother says, stroking her hair, and then Glimmer lets out a plaintive shriek as the baby finally comes loose. Madge scoops it up in a daze and her mother bends over Glimmer again.

“Almost done, almost done,” she murmurs and _what else could there be?_ Madge looks down at the baby in her arms and it is covered in blood and God knows what else, its skin wrinkled and gray. It takes her a moment to realize how quiet it is, no screaming at all, nor any movement.

_No, oh no_

“Help,” she says quietly, blood roaring in her ears.

“Help!” she shouts in a panic, no idea at all what to do. Her mother turns to her, something like bloody meat in her hands and Madge holds out the baby, her head shaking helplessly.

“It’s not, it’s not...” she tries but cannot finish and her mother’s face tightens with worry. She drops what she’s holding on the bed and takes the baby, Madge suddenly swaying. She covers her eyes with her hands and she can’t look, she can’t.

“Is it...is it okay?” Glimmer pants and Madge drops her hands slowly, a fist around her heart. Glimmer has propped herself up on shaky elbows, her eyes wide and pleading and her skin waxy. _Oh Glimmer,_ _oh oh oh_.

Madge looks at her mother and she shakes her head, her devastated expression answer enough. Glimmer collapses back and _howls_ , raw grief torn from her throat. Annie wraps her arms around her and they rock together, Madge’s knees folding up beneath her. She sinks to the floor and stares at her bloody hands and _this can’t be real, can it? This can’t be happening_.

“I’m sorry,” her mother whispers to no one and _oh God, oh God, why?_

“We’re almost at Harfleur, we’ll be there soon!” Marvel exclaims as he comes skidding into the room, his feet splashing over the wet floor. He looks at each of them in turn, sees the blood and the tears and the unmoving baby in his step-mother’s arms, and takes a step back.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “we’re almost there. We’re almost there.”

“I’m sorry Marvel, I’m so sorry,” her mother says, tears streaking down her face and Marvel takes another step back.

“No!” he says louder. “No, we’re almost there. No.”

He is still shaking his head, his face pale and his expression lost. Madge covers her mouth with her hands and tastes the blood, the smell of it permanently burnt into her nose.

“What’s going on, is everything alright?” Haymitch demands as he comes in, his eyes sweeping over the room. They do not answer, but they don't need to.

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispers and closes his eyes, his expression miserable. Marvel whirls suddenly, his eyes flashing red.

“ _This is your fault!_ ” he bellows and then shoves his father savagely into the wall. Haymitch connects with a dull _thud_ and slides slowly to the floor, his body almost boneless. Marvel reaches down for him, but then stops, his hands flexing convulsively. A muffled sob bursts from his mouth and he straightens, spins on his heel and flees, Glimmer’s howls chasing him out. The rest of them stay as they are, frozen in their horrid little tableau.

_Oh God, why?_

* * *

 

They limp into Harfleur and the storm quiets, the torrential rain calming to a drizzle.

Haymitch rides off immediately to find them accommodations and Madge can’t stay on the ship, cannot stay trapped in that room full of vomit and death and misery. She staggers outside and the wind is vicious, blowing her hair and tears behind her. It cuts through her dress like a knife, the sharp edges scraping her skin, and Madge hurls herself down the gangplank, Glimmer’s grief still sewn into her eardrums. She wants to escape it, wants to somehow tear the memory of all that horror from her mind but she can’t, God she can’t. It is like something living inside of her and even though she has been surrounded by death for nearly three years, there is something worse about this one, something that curls inside her like smoke and shards of glass.

(perhaps it’s because it was no soldier or criminal or adult, but a baby, a tiny, little girl who never breathed a single breath)

She closes her eyes and she can see the agony on Glimmer’s face, the torment on Marvel’s. _Babies die all the time_ , she tries to tell herself, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t make this any easier to bear.

_God, she was so small..._

Madge sinks ankle deep into French mud, the chill of it seeping into her boots and she holds her elbows, her fingers gripping her sleeves until they start to ache. _This is your fault_ , Marvel had screamed and was it? What had Haymitch done to bring such calamity down upon them?

A passing stranger hurries by and Madge stands there with blood on her dress, in her nose, in her mouth and cannot help but ask him what day it is. Rain trickles down her cheeks like tears and he frowns at the stains on her clothes.

“Neuf,” he mumbles and hurries off, wary eyes flickering back to her.

 _Neuf_ , she repeats to herself, _nine_.

_March ninth_

_happy seventeenth birthday_

And just like that, she breaks.

Madge crumples down into the mud and sobs, so hard she can barely breathe. The tears come heavy, all the pain, the fear and the anger surging through her and shattering her to pieces. She lies there heaving, too young even though she’s a year older and if she could think through all the misery she might think _when does it end?_

(it’s an answer she probably doesn’t want to know)

* * *

 

The sky is bright and silver like shining armour when Haymitch returns, the sun burning behind the clouds making them gleam. The rain has finally ceased completely, but the wind still tastes of the storm as Madge breathes in deeply, the tang bitter on her tongue. Haymitch canters over but does not question why she is sitting in the mud hugging her knees and she is grateful, her eyes stinging from too many tears and her throat aching.

“I have found us accommodations,” he announces stiffly and Madge feels oddly numb as she stands, her body cold and shivering. Her dress is heavy and wet as she climbs back aboard ship and she knows she should go alert her mother, but she can’t. The thought of descending back into Hell is too much for her to bear; she is too raw, too fragile. _I’ll find Marvel instead_ she decides and tries so hard to feel strong. _Be brave, be brave, please be brave._

Her heart is a heavy weight in her chest, her filthy fingers tangle in the chain of Gale’s locket as she walks slowly through the ship and when she finds Marvel, she almost wishes she hadn’t. She hears him first, a pitiful, broken weeping that cuts her to the bone. She steels herself with a deep breath and steps towards the sound, the sight cracking through her glass heart.

_Oh Marvel_

She has never cared for him, staunchly dislikes him in fact, but seeing him now, she can feel nothing but an aching sympathy. _This isn't fair._ Marvel has always seemed so proud, so confident but he is shattered now, nothing but a heaving ball of tragedy. He is huddled in a corner, his trembling hands buried in his hair, his whole body wracked with a sorrow she could never imagine. She bites her lip so hard she tastes her own blood, the tang of it mixing with Glimmer’s and Marvel suddenly looks up, somehow sensing her presence.

 _He is like an animal_ , she thinks, _a wounded animal backed up against a wall_ and she knows looking at him that he is about to lash out. He stands, his hands balled into fists and there is hatred smouldering in his eyes, so hot and virulent she is almost afraid she might catch fire. _Does he hate me for seeing him like this, so terribly vulnerable? Or perhaps he hates me for not saving his daughter or maybe he even blames me somehow for all the ill fortune that has befallen us? Or maybe, maybe he does not hate me at all, perhaps he hates himself. Perhaps he is burning under his own guilt._

“What are you looking at?” he barks, shaking all over.

“I am sorry Marvel,” she breathes and she is, so terribly sorry.

“I don't need your pity,” he spits but she thinks he might, his eyes red from sobbing and tears still wet on his cheeks. She swallows her sympathy though, knowing it will do them no good.

“Haymitch is back,” she says and whatever hatred she’d seen before is nothing to the look in his eyes now, a furious loathing that makes her shiver. He snorts like an angry horse and there are words on his tongue, she can tell, condemnations and curses ready to shred his father to pieces.

“My mother will need help with Glimmer,” she murmurs and he deflates somewhat, the blaze of his rage lessening to a simmer. A look of intense pain flashes over his face but then he forces it away, shoving roughly past her. He knocks her into the wall and she watches him go, the urge to sleep and never wake up pressing down on all her limbs. She closes her eyes for a moment before pushing herself up and then climbs back up top, her fingers trailing over every surface she passes. The cold sea air hits her like a wall as she makes her way up the stairs to the deck, bright opal sunlight hurting her eyes. She descends back onto French soil and she cannot look at Haymitch.

_Is this all your fault?_

A squire helps her up onto her horse and she has the perfect vantage point to watch the dreadful procession coming down the gangplank, the sheer misery of it like a sword thrust through her gut.

_If only we could wake from this nightmare_

Her mother shuffles down in front, cradling that poor lifeless baby with bloodstains all up her arms. Her head is bent, her chin wobbling, and then comes Marvel, his red rimmed eyes staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight. He carries Glimmer in his arms and she is wrapped up tight in a heavy blanket, only the edges of her soiled gown and her deathly pale face peeking out. Tears glitter on her cheeks in the bright light and Annie trails slowly behind them, her eyes closed and her arms wrapped securely around herself. Marvel loads Glimmer carefully into the litter, his movements uncharacteristically gentle and Madge sniffles, hating everything. Her mother climbs in after, still holding the little corpse and Madge’s heart gives an awful pang.

_Will we bury her here, so very far from home?_

_And what happens if we ever go back? Does she get left behind?_

She feels so cold, colder than the weather could possibly make her and Marvel stalks to his horse, brutally slapping away Haymitch’s hand as he attempts to lay it on his son’s shoulder. Haymitch recoils as if stung and _what a mess we are, what an utter, utter mess_.

_How can we possibly survive this exile if we are so divided?_

They set off, one of the squires sent to fetch a doctor for Glimmer, and Haymitch has found them a small house to rent just off the town square and they could probably afford something better, but then, perhaps it is best they save their money.

After all, who knows how long they’ll be here.

It is two storeys, the upstairs comprising two narrow bedrooms and the ground floor made up of one bedroom and a combined eating/cooking area. There is a small pen out back for the horses and Madge heads out there with Annie, the two of them scrubbing roughly at the blood on their skin as the squires tend the horses. The boys look but do not ask what they’re doing and Madge is grateful, she is not sure she could speak of it if she tried. There is so much filth beneath her nails and she does everything she can not to remember, not to think about just what is caught there but she can’t, the plague of those memories digging into her like flaming arrowheads. She almost wishes she could pull all her fingernails out just so she would never have to think of the horror trapped beneath them ever again.

“Madge,” Annie says softly and puts a steadying hand on her arm. Madge blinks and then looks down at her bleeding fingers, her ministrations a bit more violent than necessary. She breathes in deeply and forces herself to calm, but she cannot smile to reassure Annie, her mouth not even twitching in the corners. They stand together, their skin rough and red from washing, and take one of the second floor rooms, the tiny little bed they’ll share looking a little like heaven.

 _I wish I could sleep for a year_ she thinks and then something smashes in the room beside them. Annie jumps and Madge meets her eye, a flutter of panic in her chest. _What on Earth...?_

“You killed my baby!” Glimmer shrieks suddenly, her voice cutting straight through the thin wall between their rooms and Madge’s eyes widen.

“Glimmer-” Marvel begins, his voice equal measures angry and broken. Something else crashes with a dull _thud_ , Madge flinches and Marvel swears loudly.

“This is your fault!” Glimmer sobs, yet another object breaking with a muffled _crack._

“This is _not_ my fault!” Marvel roars back and Glimmer lets out a deranged screech like some sort of wild animal.

“It is, _it is_! You and your damned ambition! Are you happy now, are you satisfied?” she screams, her voice snapping with anguish.

“ _My_ ambition?! And who was it encouraging me every step of the way? Who was it, Glimmer, who? _Who was it?!_ ” he bellows, an odd sort of torment in his words, and something else shatters, perhaps a mirror.

“I hate you, _I hate you_! Get out! Out! I hate you! You killed our baby, you, you did it!”

A door slams, heavy footsteps stamp through the hall and down the stairs and Glimmer’s wretched sobs echo through the flimsy wood, Madge’s heart crumbling into dust.

_we are sacrifices then, all of us, on that great altar of ambition._

_how wicked greed is_

_how it has ruined us_

* * *

 

(Marvel doesn’t know where he’s going when he leaves the house, all he knows is he needs to get out out _out_. Glimmer’s accusations follow him as he runs blindly through Harfleur’s streets _and it isn’t my fault, it isn't, it isn’t._

 _It can’t be_.

It’s his father’s fault, Glimmer’s fault, Katniss’ fault, his step-mother’s fault, everyone’s fault but not his. _Not his_.

There is blood on him, Glimmer’s blood, staining his doublet and dried on his hands, like rusty red paint. His stomach cramps, his head pounds and all he can hear is Glimmer, her words but also her screams, her moans, her wailing and weeping in that infernal ship and God he wishes he could burn it, wishes he could break it apart with his bare hands. He wants to rip it into pieces, wants to kick it and crush it and demolish it, wants to scream and shout and tear it open, wants to rage and rage and _rage_.

_fuck_

_fuckfuckfuckfuck_ fuck

There is agony in every part of him, so much pain he can barely stand and he wants to weep, cannot stop the tears that pour down his cheeks again and again and again. He has never cried so much in his life and this emptiness, this fury, this sorrow echoing in his bones, he wants it gone, wants it stomped out and destroyed.

There is only one memory burning in his eyes, one sight he cannot erase and it is Glimmer howling in a bloody bed and his step-mother holding his daughter, gray and still and dead.

_make it stop_

_please, make it stop_ )

* * *

 

Madge sits in her room as the doctor tends to Glimmer, the soft murmur of voices just audible through the brittle walls. She clasps her hands in her lap and thinks of wasted Glimmer, pale and deathly as she’d lain limp in Marvel’s arms and then she thinks of Marvel too, bloodshot and ravaged as he’d wept. He’s still gone, off somewhere in twilight Harfleur and Madge hears their argument again, like a battering ram against her eardrums.

_You and your damned ambition! Are you happy now, are you satisfied?_

Ambition, always ambition. Is there anything more damned in all the world than a lust for power? What’s so great about ruling the world? How can it be worth all this?

“Maybe we should go to bed,” Annie murmurs and Madge moves mechanically, her body and mind separate and distant. She peels off her sullied dress and bundles it in the corner, wishing wishing she could set it afire. There is a deep, melancholy sigh trapped in her chest and she feels ancient as she slips into her nightgown, every muscle and joint aching. She sits heavily on the edge of the bed as Annie laces up the back of her dress, her toes curling on the hard floor.The doctor leaves, his footsteps light on the narrow stairs and _I wonder, how is Glimmer? Will she be alright?_ Another pair of feet follow him, probably her mother, and soon the front door closes, an oppressive sort of hush settling over the house.

The moon rises slowly beyond their window and Madge stares at a whorl on the floor until Annie blows out the bedside candle, darkness settling over her like a lead blanket. She climbs slowly beneath the covers and holds Gale’s locket in her hand, a tide of emotion rising within her. She is exhausted and miserable and furious, the scent of blood still singeing her nostrils.

_Why are we here?_

_What’s happened?_

Annie soon breathes steadily in sleep beside her, but Madge cannot follow suit. Her fingers clench around the bedcovers, she stares up at the shadowy ceiling and she is molten with rage.

_I have lost my home._

_We are exiles._

_Gale might be dead._

_Glimmer has lost her baby._

_Why?_

_We deserve an explanation._

She flings off her covers and stands abruptly, her whole body trembling. Perhaps it is reckless of her, but she does not care, Haymitch is going to tell her everything. No more lies, no more secrets. The Yorkists have done enough to ruin her life, now they owe her the truth. She wants answers and Haymitch is going to give them. She stomps down the stairs, Haymitch and her mother sharing the downstairs bedroom, and the door is cracked open, a flicker of candlelight spilling through. Madge strides over but then stops short at the sound of murmured voices. She creeps closer and angles her ear towards the opening, her mother’s sharp whisper reaching her.

“You cannot be serious,” she hisses and Madge slinks closer still, until she can see through the slit between the slightly open door and the door frame. Her mother is sitting up, arms folded over her chest while Haymitch lies on his side, his back to his wife and his expression drawn.

“I’ve had a long day,” he says tightly and her mother scoffs.

“We’ve all had a long day,” she retorts and Haymitch closes his eyes, inhaling deeply.

“I am not discussing this now.”

“Yes, you are. You promised me Haymitch, when we married, that you would keep me and my daughter safe. We are not safe and I deserve to know why.”

Madge’s eyes widen and Haymitch clenches his jaw, before breathing out slowly.

“What do you want me to say Margaret?” he asks wearily and her mother narrows her eyes.

“The truth. Why are we here? What have you done?”

There is a long pause and Madge’s heart beat quickens, anxious anticipation clawing its way through her.

“I took up arms against my Queen,” he says finally and Madge presses her fingers to her mouth to stifle a gasp, those words hanging there, deadly and final.

_Oh Gale, oh God_

_How is this possible?_

“Why in the name of God would you do that?” her mother asks, almost pleading, and Haymitch closes his eyes again, his expression pained.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Her mother’s eyes stretch wide and Madge can barely stand, her legs so weak they could be made of water.

“ _How_ , Haymitch, is betraying the Queen, _your cousin_ , the right thing?”

He sighs, a tragic, weary sound, and rubs his forehead with his knuckles, his eyes closed as if to better remember.

“It wasn’t my idea. After...after the disaster with King Louis, I was so angry, furious, betrayed. The other nobles at court, the ones that were unsatisfied with Katniss, they approached me. They wanted to overthrow her and hoped for my support, indeed, they wanted to put me on the throne in her place. After Katniss and Prim, I would be next in line and as I’m a man...well, they were sure no one would protest.”

“And you accepted?” her mother demands and Haymitch sits up suddenly, turning to her with wounded, hostile eyes.

“No! Or at least, I didn’t want to.”

He pauses for a moment and looks down at his lap, Madge’s heart stopped dead in her chest.

_this can’t be happening_

“They made it clear though that they were going to rebel with or without me,” he continues, sounding exhausted, “and I knew if I said no, they would turn to Marvel instead. I love my son, but I am no idiot. He is an ambitious fool; he would step over me in an instant if a crown was at stake. Perhaps they had foreseen my reluctance, for they did tell Marvel and he and Glimmer were ever so eager for me to accept. I knew listening to them that they would do anything for the throne and worse, they would have no qualms executing Gale and Katniss if it meant they might rule. I couldn’t let that happen. Nor could I turn these rebels in, not without implicating Marvel as well. And it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, even if this group was stopped, there were so many more, all over the country. I thought...I thought it would be best if I joined them. I could make sure no one in my family was hurt, I could protect Katniss and Gale and all the others. Katniss was only queen because I’d insisted on it, she’d never wanted it. I could be king, I could quiet the rebels who wanted a man, I could try and fix things with the French, I could keep everyone safe...what a fool I was, what an arrogant fool.”

He drops his head into his hands and then he starts to shake, his body trembling with tears. Madge sucks in a breath and the hard look on her mother’s face begins to soften.

“I have ruined everything. I have cost us all our home, our safety, I have...I have broken my promise to you, I have...I have lost my son, he will never forgive me. And I can’t forgive myself...oh God, my granddaughter, she is...she’s dead, because of me. I have ruined us and I do not know how to fix this. I am sorry Margaret, oh God, I’m sorry...”

He breaks off, the words caught in a sob and Madge backs away, the sight of him crying making her feel sick. Haymitch has always seemed so implacable and she feels like she’s dived straight into freezing waters as she watches him fall apart.

_I am a traitor to the crown yet again_

_I have been pardoned once, but you only get one second chance_

_Oh God_

_That really was our last goodbye Gale_

_Oh God oh God_

She staggers over to the stairs and sinks down, her fingers clutching the banister so tight it hurts. She claps a hand to her mouth to muffle her tears as they pour forth, the hopelessness of her situation truly sinking in. There will be no return to England now, no happy reunion.

Madge is angry, so angry she quakes, but that anger can’t do anything, it can’t change anything. She is heartbroken too, but that can’t help her either, nothing can.

Haymitch, Marvel and Glimmer, they all reached too high and now Madge must fall with them.

* * *

 

She curls back into bed, unable to stop her weeping and _what am I supposed to do now?_

The darkness swallowing her whole has only one answer.

_give up_

* * *

 

Madge spends the night sobbing, her heart shattering to pieces in her chest. Tomorrow she will have to accept what she cannot change, but tonight she mourns, allows herself to fall entirely apart.

She can barely breathe through her tears and _this isn’t fair! Why does this keep happening to us? Father, England, Gale, am I to lose everything?_

_Oh God oh God, this isn’t fair_

* * *

 

(The moon turns the still lingering clouds silver and Gale looks out from Dover’s cliffs, the channel black and dotted with scattered stars. Somewhere beyond his sight is France and his heart snaps painfully in half, little, tiny pieces grinding into dust.

_How could you do this Haymitch? How?_

In all his life, even when the Lancastrians had killed his father, he has never been as angry as he is right now. The fury is blinding and worse is the hurt living in his every organ, that vile betrayal sucking him dry. _This must be a nightmare_ he thinks, _it must be_ but it isn’t. Haymitch has stabbed them in the back and Gale can still feel that knife twitching agonisingly with every beat of his broken heart.

_Why Haymitch why?_

As if that is not enough, Madge is over there too, a traitor to the crown just like her step-father. He knots her handkerchief around his fingers and there is a hole in his heart, a ragged, seeping hole left behind when Madge fled England, a chunk of him clutched tight in her hands. _This is what you get for falling in love with a Lancastrian_ whispers the nasty voice in his head and all he wants is to wake up, to see her and hold her and know nothing at all is going to keep them apart.

 _I am yours wholly_ he’d carved into her pin and he is, he’s hers and he’d never have believed love could ache this terribly, but it does, crumbles whatever bits of him have survived the pain of Haymitch’s treachery into ash. He loves her even though he shouldn’t, even though he knows they’ve lost any chance of a future together and that can’t have been their last goodbye, it _can’t_ have been.

_This has to be a nightmare_

His family has been torn apart and he has lost Madge, lost her forever.

 _God, let this be a nightmare_ )

* * *

 

(“How could he have done this? He’s your _cousin_ , how could he have taken up arms against his family?” Philippa asks and Rory wishes he had some sort of answer.

“I don't know,” he whispers and he feels like he’s bleeding, like there is some open wound he cannot staunch. Gale has stormed off, Posy and Vick cannot stop crying, his mother is worried even though she will not admit it and Rory doesn’t know why he’s come to Philippa, but perhaps it is because he cannot bear to be around his family even as he cannot bear to be alone.

“It’s despicable, families should never turn on each other,” she hisses furiously and there is something about the venom in her voice that touches him.  

“No,” he agrees softly, “they shouldn’t.”

He looks down at his hands, a sick, angry heartbreak in his stomach and neither of them says a word, the silence between them oddly comfortable, so unlike how it usually is when they’re together. He closes his eyes, sudden memories of Haymitch swarming across his vision, but they snap open almost immediately when Philippa touches his face. Her fingers cup his cheek and one very soft thumb wipes away a tear, his breath caught in his throat.

“You shouldn’t cry for him, he doesn’t deserve it,” she says and Rory stares at her in surprise. Her expression is hard, her eyes blazing and he hadn’t even realized he’d been crying, his face strangely warm where her hand had brushed it.

“I...I feel like he’s cut me open,” he admits and somewhere far away he cannot believe he is saying this to Philippa, annoying, pain in his arse Philippa. She shakes her head and grabs his arm, squeezing tightly.

“You are too good a person to waste your sorrow on a man like Haymitch,” she says, harsh, fiery, and Rory’s whole body shivers with agony and something else. Never, in over a year of marriage, has he felt as close to Philippa as he does right now. He looks into her eyes, pale pale blue, and he thinks of Gale’s motto, _For Justice and Family._ All his life Gale has told him, over and over and over again, _nothing is more important than family. Nothing_.

“He chose ambition over us,” he finds himself saying, his voice odd, and Philippa bites her lip. She squeezes his arm again and the pressure is comforting in a way he can’t explain.

“He’s horrible,” she says and Rory nods, a tight knot of emotion writhing in his stomach. Haymitch has betrayed his family, _their_ family, and Rory feels sorrow melt into rage, those words roaring in his ears.

_Nothing is more important than family._

_Nothing._

“I hate him,” he says, “I hope Katniss makes him pay for this.”)

(anger, as it turns out, is much easier to bear than heartbreak)

* * *

 

(Katniss thinks of Haymitch’s betrayal and thinks _how could you? How could you Haymitch?_ )

(but then, under that, she thinks, _is this our fault too? Are we all to blame?_ )

* * *

 

Two months.

They’ve been here for two whole months, two sad, bitter, pointless months.

They’ve done nothing but stagnate; sinking deeper and deeper into a rut she isn’t sure they will ever find a way out of. They are listless, hopeless and perhaps because they all know there’s nothing they can do, they never even bother to try. It makes Madge angry, furious, but even she cannot rouse herself to act. What would she do? Even if she woke everyone from their stupor, what would they do? She can never answer that and so her rage remains buried under lethargy and despair, the flames inside doused by mourning.

_it’s over isn’t it? we’ve lost_

Haymitch spends every day drinking, drowning himself in the oblivion of ale. Madge watches him as he sits at their little table, his hand never empty of his tankard, his face haggard and his shoulders slumped, and almost wishes she could join him. She wants to forget everything as well, wants to numb her pain but she has enough of her old anger, of hope to stop herself. She cannot quite give up, even though she wants to, there is still a chance, however miniscule, that things might turn around.

_How?_

_I don’t know_

Haymitch never leaves their house, not to go to church, not even to buy his own alcohol. He is a hermit and it is the squires who supply him, though even their numbers dwindle. They have three squires left, the rest having abandoned them and Madge cannot blame them. Why stay yoked to a sinking ship if you don’t have to? It is better this way anyway; the less people there are, the less money they have to spend. They have a finite amount of funds and Madge cannot help but worry about what they will do when it runs out, because it will eventually, especially as no one is doing anything to earn any more. She knows when the money runs dry they will start selling what they don’t need, their jewels, gowns, horses and more, but that won’t last forever either. What will they do then? Starve in a gutter?

That problem weighs heavily on her mother, whose health takes a sharp downturn. She has never been robust, always been frail but the stress takes an even heavier toll than Madge would have imagined. She has no appetite, her skin is pale and translucent, her bones jut out and bags form underneath her eyes, heavy and purple and ominous. She seems perpetually exhausted, but she does not rest, cannot. Annie is the only servant they have left, so it is up to Madge and her mother to pick up the slack. They cook and clean for the first time in their lives, scrub floors and dishes, peel vegetables and boil stew. They cannot waste money on new clothes or seamstresses, so Madge darns hems and mends dishtowels while her mother carefully keeps track of all their spending, her brow eternally creased with worry.

Glimmer does not leave her room, has not stepped outside it even once. The room next door feels like a tomb to Madge and if it weren’t for the fact that her mother went in their daily with a tray of food and that she occasionally heard muffled sobs through the wall, she might not believe Glimmer was still alive. Her heartbreak is like an oppressive veil lying over all of them, ensuring no one can ever escape the tragedy of their journey. Madge is both achingly sympathetic and selfishly resentful, wishes wishes wishes Glimmer might give them a chance to breathe, to forget the nightmare of that day. But perhaps because she will never forget it, she cannot allow anyone else to.

Marvel is much like his father, burying himself in alcohol, but where Haymitch stays home to drown his sorrows. Marvel is nearly always out. He spends most days and nights somewhere else, anywhere else, only returning occasionally to raid their food supply, pilfer funds and snore loudly on the kitchen bench or out by the horses. He smells like booze, vomit and unwashed boy, his eyes always bloodshot and his temper foul. He barely speaks to anyone and never to his father, looking through him as if he wasn’t even there.

Never once does he venture upstairs to see Glimmer.

Sometimes when Madge is on her knees washing up the puddles of sick he tends to leave behind, she thinks _we cannot go on like this. Something has to be done._ But when she tries to plan something they might do instead, she inevitably runs into a wall. They cannot ask for help from the French king, not after Haymitch’s last disaster of a visit. They cannot go home; the Yorkists won’t be able to forgive Haymitch’s betrayal, not if they want to ensure no one else follows in his footsteps.

(Madge sometimes imagines going back alone, begging forgiveness and insisting she had no idea what Haymitch was planning, but she can’t. It would be wrong, selfish, awful to abandon the others)

(even still, she cannot stop the dreams of it)

The Lancastrians are somewhere here in France too but they would never accept Haymitch or Marvel, two of their staunchest enemies and that’s it then, they are out of options.

_how could it come to this?_

Madge prays nightly for guidance, for salvation, with Gale’s locket pressed between her palms and the only place she ever goes is church, begging God to save them. Annie goes with her and they kneel there for hours, because the longer they stay in France, the more it seems divine intervention may be their only chance.

_forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil_

_(please)_

* * *

 

(Their little house in Harfleur is closer to Finnick than she’s been in two years, and yet Annie is just as far away as she’s always been.

They are finally in the same country but she has no way of contacting him, no idea even where he is exactly. She can’t go to him, not only because she has no idea where to go, but because she cannot leave Madge. Not now.

It is agony and she has never been more torn. She yearns for Finnick, her heart weeping for him but she aches for Madge too and how can she choose one over the other? Finnick is her soul mate, but Madge her best friend.

_What do I do?_

Annie cannot leave so she sits by their tiny window and holds the one handkerchief she’d managed to bring, Finnick’s sigil stitched in silver thread. She looks out at the sky and whispers her prayer up to the stars.

 _I’m here Finnick, find me, please_ )

* * *

 

Madge, Annie and their escort Robert the squire leave St Martin’s Church on a quiet day in mid-May, spring sunshine falling over them like a golden curtain. It is early afternoon on a Saturday and people are out in force, wandering the streets, popping into shops and chatting amiably from the windows of timber framed houses. Unlike when they’d first arrived, none of the people turn to stare as they trudge by and Madge cannot decide if it is a good or bad thing that they’ve become invisible.

Her knees ache from hours of kneeling and she peers around for something to do, eyes tracing over the scenery that is much too familiar to her now. Two months feels like two years and she’s honestly beginning to believe they’ll never leave. She looks to Annie, pale faced and weary, and then to Robert, grumpy and a bit too thin and _please, let today be the day something happens._ She wishes the same thing every day, but maybe, maybe, this time it will actually come true.

There is a dull thud at the back of her head, a feeling of curdled milk in her stomach and she needs this waiting to be over. Whether it is ruin or salvation, something needs to happen. They reach their little house and once, over two hundred years ago, Harfleur belonged to the kings of England and she thinks about that often, that this place that is her exile was once part of the only country she’s ever known.

She never knows how to feel about that.

Robert goes around back to join the other squires, leaving Annie and Madge to head inside. They shuffle through the door and it is too early to start supper, which means they have a very long afternoon ahead of them. The place is tidy for the moment, so there’s no need to clean it; she has read every book they’ve brought several times; she cannot see the point in embroidery and wasting money on the thread for it seems silly anyway; and she cannot find the energy to take part in cards or dice.  _Perhaps I’ll take a nap_ , thinks the quiet melancholy of her mind and why not? It’s isn't as if she has anything better to do. The boozy, unwashed smell of Haymitch drifts towards them and he is sitting at the table, head in one hand and a mug of something strong in the other. He looks a mess as usual and Annie skirts around him quickly, making sure not to make eye contact. She bounds into the stairwell and then up the stairs and Madge follows slowly, her very soul lethargic. She takes the first few steps just as Annie reaches the top and disappears over the landing, her footsteps flying over the creaky floorboards. _Where does she find the energy?_

“Alright Haymitch, that’s enough.”

Madge stops at her mother’s aggravated voice, a tiny pinprick of curiosity blooming inside of her. She stays where she is, hidden behind a wall, and tries desperately not to make a single sound.

“Give that here,” Haymitch grunts and Madge hears footsteps and then a heavy clunk as something, Haymitch’s tankard most probably, is set down on the counter.

“No, I’ve had enough of watching you drink yourself to death.”

“You have no right,” Haymitch slurs slightly and her mother snorts.

“I have every right. We cannot afford for you to waste our remaining funds on drowning your sorrows. We need action Haymitch; it’s time you made yourself useful.”

Madge blinks in surprise at the force in her mother’s words and even Haymitch is quiet for a long moment.

“And what would you have me do?” he asks finally, his voice half annoyed and half despairing. Her mother clucks her tongue.

“Sober up to begin with. You are not helping anyone like this. I know you feel guilty, but we would all be better served if you’d focus your energies on rectifying your mistakes, rather than compounding them.”

Haymitch scoffs bitterly.

“If I could fix this, wouldn’t I have?”

“You can and you know it. You don't like your options so you’re hiding here drunk, but I’m tired of living like this. If you won’t help us, I will.”

“How?” Haymitch asks sceptically and Madge waits with bated breath.

“I’ve written to King Louis,” her mother says evenly and the temperature seems to drop several degrees. Madge’s eyes go wide and Haymitch’s silence is deafening.

“You did what?” he asks with deadly calm, not even a trace of alcohol in his voice.

“I wrote to the King,” her mother repeats firmly, “I expect an answer shortly.”

 “You are a fool. He will not see us,” Haymitch says, still eerily, frighteningly calm, and her mother snorts.

“He will. And you know it even if you won’t admit it. King Louis wants the Yorkists to pay and he is prepared to back a Lancastrian invasion. Your insider knowledge of their tactics, my royal blood, our wealth in England and the large number of supporters you can muster will be invaluable. Louis will want to take as little risk as possible; they do not call him ‘prudent’ for nothing. With our help, he lessens the number of men he has to commit and heightens the chance of victory and a return on his monetary investment. He will see us and he will want our help.”

Madge stands frozen, her mother’s words rushing over her like icy waves. _She wants us to join the Lancastrians, to depose Katniss and put Coriolanus back on the throne._

_Oh my God_

“We got into this mess because I tried to overthrow Katniss. Your solution is really just to do the same thing again?” Haymitch demands, his voice as sharp as a sword, and her mother exhales loudly.

“We have no other choice. You can rot here if you want, but I won’t. I don't care who we have to betray, I am not going to die here.”

Madge cannot breathe and never, never has her mother sounded like this.

_Survival Madge, that’s what matters most, no matter the cost_

“Enobaria will never agree,” Haymitch insists, that veneer of calm just starting to slip.

“She will have no choice. She cannot afford to disagree with Louis and if he vouches for us, she will have to accept us. You know it Haymitch, that’s why you brought Anne, isn't it? To try and win her father’s favour? You know just as I do that the Lancastrians are our only hope.”

Madge’s eyes go wide and _of course! How didn’t I see it? No servants but Annie, he’s been planning this since the beginning. Oh Haymitch, you always have a contingency plan, don't you?_

“You cannot ask me to do this,” Haymitch suddenly pleads and his voice breaks over the words.

“Yes I can. I am asking you Haymitch, I am asking you to save your son, his wife, my daughter. I know you hate the Lancastrians, I know you don't want anything to happen to Katniss and Gale, but you cannot have both. Either we survive or they do, it’s time to choose,” her mother says, voice gentle but insisting and Madge feels as if she’s fallen over, like the whole world has turned upside down.

“God help me,” Haymitch says and Madge covers her mouth with her hand.

_God help us all_

* * *

 

Madge climbs back up to her room slowly, her mind churning.

Her fingers shake slightly on the rail, her heart beats unevenly and this is the chance she’s been waiting for, the salvation she’s been praying for. They will return to England, they will be safe from starvation or homelessness; her father will even be avenged.

But at what cost?

Coriolanus will rule again, plunging the kingdom back into hell with his cruelty; war will ravage the country yet again; and the Yorkists will be slaughtered, Gale among them.

_no, God no_

Her heart lurches painfully at the thought and she closes her eyes, pressing his locket into her chest so hard it hurts.

_This isn't fair_

_I’m so tired of being on opposite sides_

Tears touch her cheeks and _you cannot have both, it’s time to choose_. That’s what her mother had said and Madge realizes now that she too has to make a choice. The war will come either way, that is inevitable, but the rest...

_Gale’s family or mine?_

_Avenge my father or protect the man I love?_

_Lancaster or York?_

* * *

 

(Margaret is right of course, Haymitch knows that well. His error has cost them everything and he has to set things right.

Marvel, Glimmer, Madge, Anne, they need him to swallow his revulsion and do what needs to be done)

(but he will never forgive himself for this)

(how could he?)

_(we always said Coriolanus was the monster)_

_(we were wrong)_

_(i’m the monster)_

* * *

 

The King’s letter arrives in June.

They are eating a meagre dinner when the courier arrives, Thomas the squire fetching the message and bringing it in for Haymitch. Madge watches him intently as he opens it, so intently that she doesn’t even notice the cheese sliding off her bread and back down to her plate. Haymitch’s expression is pained as he reads it and Madge feels her heart pound.

_This is it_

He meets her mother’s eye and nods slightly, lightning crackling through Madge’s blood. Her mother nods back and Haymitch stands, scooping up his bread and cheese.

“Robert, ready my horse, I ride out immediately,” Haymitch commands, his voice rough, and Robert nods before hurrying off. Haymitch sighs, a tired, heavy sound, and then disappears into his room, her mother standing abruptly and following after. Annie looks around in confusion and Madge forgets about eating, her mind awhirl.

_King Louis has sent for him_

_This is really happening_

_Now what am I going to do?_

Haymitch emerges with a packed bag and his neck is red, suggesting he and her mother have had heated words. He strides out into the faint summer sun and her mother leans back against her bedroom door, her face drawn but determined.

_They are planning, now I must plan too_

Madge stands and walks over to the window, her fingers clutching the wood frame. She peers through the slightly warped glass and watches as Haymitch mounts his horse, his shoulders sagging. He does not want to do this, that’s obvious, but survival is what matters and they need Louis to survive. Her nails dig into the wood and he straightens up, forcing a look of resolve onto his face.

_Win this day for us Haymitch_

_And what will I do when he does?_

Haymitch gallops off and Madge cannot help feeling somewhat sick as she follows him with her eyes. He is going to make a pact with the devil and Madge knows he must. Still, if he makes this alliance, she will lose Gale, for good, for certain.

_It doesn’t matter; I don't need happiness to survive_

_(but is it really so wrong to want it?)_

* * *

 

Madge tugs Annie up to their room and sits her down on the bed.

“I’m sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I didn't want to get your hopes up,” she says and Annie tilts her head.

“About what?”

Madge squeezes both her hands.

“Haymitch has gone to talk to King Louis. The hope is that he’ll help Haymitch gain the favour of the Lancastrians.”

Annie’s eyes go wide, she inhales sharply and Madge smiles, even as her own heart aches. Annie ducks her head, eyes wet, and her shoulders shake.

“Oh God, oh God, I never dared hope...” she trails off in tears and Madge pulls her into a hug. Annie cries into her arms and _what does it matter that I’m unhappy? Annie was happy for me in England, now I shall be happy here for her._

_If only there was a way we could both be happy..._

_(there isn’t)_

* * *

 

(Sometimes when Gale can’t sleep (and that is most nights these days), he thinks of Madge in France, the soft gold of her hair, the summer blue of her eyes, the curve of her lips and the brightness of her smile. He can see her so clearly sometimes it is like she is there beside him, warm and smelling like roses and the pain is fresh each time and always bittersweet. He can imagine the exact cadence of her voice, the sound of her laughter, can remember how it felt to touch her, kiss her and he wants so fucking badly to talk to her, to tell her _I love you, it doesn’t matter what side of the war you’re on, I will always love you_.

Madge is lost to him and even though they won, he cannot help but feel as though he’s lost too)

* * *

As always, the wait is excruciating.

Madge cannot concentrate on anything, her thoughts too tied up in Haymitch and his meeting with King Louis. This is their one and only chance at salvation, their only hope and yet...and yet, if they join up with the Lancastrians, she will have lost Gale for good.

She shouldn’t care about that, because survival is what matters most. She does not need Gale to survive, she knows that and yet she cannot just forget him, brush him aside as if he meant nothing. She loves him, loves him so much and she whispers to his locket each night, as if it were Gale himself and he might hear her. She knows she will never have him back, will never marry him or grow old beside him and she will bear that pain if she has to, but she will not let him die.

_The world has taken much from me, but it will not take this_

A dangerous, foolish plan begins to formulate in her mind and it is reckless yes, but Madge is tired of reacting. It is time to go on the offensive.

_I am going to survive_

_And so will you Gale, I’m going to save you_

_I’m going to save all of us_

_(even if it means never seeing you again)_

* * *

 

(It isn’t that Rory likes Philippa, he doesn’t, she is still Philippa, obnoxious, bothersome, irritating Philippa, but she is also the only person who lets him _hate_ without any judgement.

His family still loves Haymitch even as they curse him, but Rory _can’t_. He sees the melancholy lines carved into his mother’s face, the haunted anger in Gale’s eyes, hears the sound of Posy crying herself to sleep and sits with Vick after every terrible nightmare and he cannot forgive Haymitch, he _can’t_. Rory loves his family, would die for them (not that Gale would ever let him) and he cannot forgive someone, anyone, who has hurt them. His family is suffering and they mean everything to him, _everything_ , and that means whoever made them suffer has to suffer too, even if that man is his cousin.

Philippa is the only one that understands. His mother would be disappointed in him for wishing misfortune on anyone, Posy and Vick would only be made sadder and Gale...Gale might understand, for he too is furious, a smouldering pyre of heartbroken rage, but even though Rory’s fourteen, to Gale he is still a child. Rory knows it’s only because Gale is so used to taking care of him, to being father as well as brother, and so he doesn’t blame him, but still, he isn't a baby, not anymore. With Philippa at least, he can be as angry as he wants to.

“I’ll never forgive him,” he vows and Philippa nods, eyes bright.

“Never,” she echoes and Rory remembers being younger and listening to Gale talk about the Lancastrians, those wicked, vile monsters that stole Papa away. At the time, they had seemed the height of evil, but he knows better now. The worst crime, the worst ever, is to betray your family)

(and for the rest of his life, all the way until he dies, Rory will never believe anything as firmly as he does that)

* * *

 

It is the first of July, the sun is warm overhead, and Madge brings the squires their breakfast.

She offers them bread and some boiled beef and they dig in with gusto, thanking her with full mouths and half-done bows. Their manners have slipped somewhat in the four months they’ve been living here, but Madge doesn’t mind. She’s never really cared about that sort of thing, but especially not now. They’re all in the same boat here, she’s just grateful these boys have stood by them. She heads inside and she thinks oddly of Bristel, that squire of her father’s that used to partner her in dance lessons with a scowl _. I wonder what happened to him. He was at Towton, wasn’t he?_

_Oh_

 She shakes her head to banish the sting of pain and her mother is waiting for her in an oddly chipper mood.

“Good, you’re here,” she says and Madge sets down her tray with a confused look.

“Mother?” she asks and her mother smiles, colour just slightly returning to her cheeks.

“Your step-father has sent me a letter; we are to join him tomorrow at King Louis’ court. I want everyone to wash up and pack today so we might leave first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll have one of the boys bring in the tub and beg another off the neighbours, you two should start boiling some water. Oh, and make sure you pick out something nice for Anne to wear tomorrow, after all, she’s just as much a lady as the rest of us.”

Madge blinks at her mother’s rapid speech, her heart beat quickening. Margaret heads outside to talk to the squires and Madge turns to Annie, her own wide eyed surprise reflected on her face.

_It’s happening, it’s really happening_

Annie brings her shaking hands up to cover her mouth and Madge hurries over to hug her. The fact that this is truly, honestly happening does not feel real and Madge almost expects to wake up.

_Oh my God, this is really happening_

_It’s time_

Annie starts to cry and Madge squeezes her, her heart pounding. _I won’t let you down,_ she thinks to her mother, Annie, Gale, to everyone, _I am going to save us, I swear._ William the squire drags in the tub from outside and Annie pulls away, wiping unsteadily at her eyes. Madge immediately starts a fire to heat the water and her mother comes in smiling brightly, setting a basket down on the counter.

“I’ll rouse Glimmer and have her come down. You three can use this tub; I’ll have the boys take care of Marvel in the neighbour’s outside.”

Madge nods and her mother heads upstairs. Annie peeks in the basket and gasps.

“Oh look,” she says and pulls out fresh soap and bottles of oils, lotions and sweet perfume. She sets them out on the counter and Madge feels her spirits start to lift just looking at them. She’s had plenty of baths since they’ve been here, but never like the ones she used to enjoy back home. It might be a small, silly thing, but her heart shivers a bit in pleasure as she fills up the tub with hot water and pours in some lavender scented oil. Not of course, that such good feelings last.

Just as Madge inhales dreamily, Glimmer comes into view, looking more like a ghost than a living person. She leans heavily on Margaret’s shoulder, her feet bare and her long hair hanging down her back in greasy tangles. It is dull and dirty, so unlike the usual gleaming silver-blonde mass Glimmer was always so proud of. There are dark purple bags beneath her eyes and her skin is pale and waxy, her eyes cloudy and dim. She looks tired and underfed and Madge presses a hand to her stomach, feeling suddenly winded.

“Come now darling, you do want to look your best for the king, don't you?” her mother-in-law cajoles and Glimmer takes a shuddering breath.

“Yes,” she says with a raspy voice, “yes of course.”

Margaret smiles, pats Glimmer’s hair and then heads out back, taking a few of the bottles with her. Glimmer turns to Madge and Annie and tries to give them her old imperious look, but it falters somewhat and that shouldn’t make Madge ache so terrible, but oh, it does. She and Annie strip off Glimmer’s stained nightgown and Madge has to stifle a gasp. Glimmer is too thin in most places, has clearly not been eating well, but around her stomach she is pudgy with sagging skin. Madge feels a little ill looking at it, that stark reminder of the baby dead and lost.

_Oh Glimmer_

Annie offers her hand and helps Glimmer climb into the bath, her breath hissing out between her teeth at the heat. She sinks low into the water, folding up until everything beneath her nose is submerged and she looks eerily like a drowned corpse as she lies there, her chest barely rising. _Stop thinking like that, stop it_ , Madge tells herself firmly and picks up a hairbrush, determined to work through the snarls in Glimmer’s hair. She works carefully, methodically on every greasy knot and Annie lathers Glimmer’s whole body with soap, scrubbing her spindly limbs and baggy stomach. No one speaks, the only sound the _splish splash_ of bathwater, and Madge massages soap into Glimmer’s scalp, coating every inch of hair in bubbles. They rinse and rinse until Madge feels confident it is entirely oil free and Glimmer starts to look slightly more alive under their ministrations, her skin taking on a slightly more natural hue and even her eyes starting to regain their typical attitude.

(perhaps they are not just washing off the grime but the pain as well)

They help her out, dry her off and then Annie brushes out her hair while Madge rubs her with sweet smelling lotions. She is soft and fresh when they are done, the darkness hanging around her lightening just a shade. Annie helps her back upstairs to dress and Madge plunges her grubby nightgown into the tub, though she thinks they might be better off burning it. She scrubs at it roughly, working furiously on the various stains from sweat, blood and things she is not sure she wants to know about. It feels almost cathartic to attack them, like she is not just washing them away, but all they represent

_let this be a new start for us, let us all begin again_

Annie comes down and starts heating more water, Madge sitting back for a moment. She wipes the sweat from her brow and stands, taking the nightgown outside. She arrives just in time to see the squires attempting to wrestle Marvel into the tub and her eyes widen in disbelief.

_We gave Glimmer an entire bath and dressed her, has it really taken them all this time to rouse and strip him?_

Her mother watches from a safe distance and Marvel is apparently as slippery as an eel, even though he is clearly still inebriated. Every word is heavily slurred as he tries to escape the squires, the three of them struggling to stop him.

“Off! Off you...you peasants! Un...unhand me! Rrrruffians!”

They stuff him into the bathwater and Madge hangs up Glimmer’s nightdress, somewhat bemused as Marvel continues to thrash half-heartedly.

“I was hoping two of you might help us empty the tub,” she says and William immediately leaps to attention.

“Of course, my lady,” he says and dashes inside, Thomas snapping at his heels and a dismayed Robert is left to hold Marvel down on his own. Madge offers him a sympathetic smile and then follows the boys into the house. She starts heating more water as they lug out the tub and dump it, before retuning reluctantly to their belligerent captive. Annie climbs in slowly once they’ve refilled it and she seems almost mystified at the flowery scent coming from the water.

“Oh you don't have to,” she says awkwardly as Madge prepares to cover her in soap. Madge frowns and hates the way Annie won’t meet her eyes.

“Nonsense, a lady never washes herself,” she attempts to joke, her heart panging in her chest and Annie tries and fails to smile. She is very stiff as Madge washes her hair and scrubs her all over, every part of her clearly uncomfortable.

(Annie knows it’s silly, she used to have baths like this all the time, but somehow, for some reason, now it just feels wrong)

Madge wishes she could say something but no words come and she feels so useless, so utterly, utterly useless. Annie pops out quickly when it’s over and dries herself, Madge watching her back with a miserable frown. _Oh Annie..._

They have the boys empty the tub again, Marvel’s difficult bath nearly over, and Madge steps into the hot water, steam curling over its surface, and sighs contently. She sinks all the way in and all her aches and pains seem to vanish, her whole body warm and comfortable. She cannot imagine anything more luxurious than a sweet smelling bath and she never wants to get out, lingering just a bit after Annie has finished scrubbing every inch of her.

_whoever invented hot baths deserves every praise_

“I hope you’re almost done,” her mother says as she comes into the room and Madge sighs. “I’m going to heat us up yesterday’s stew; I think we’ve earned it.”

Madge nods and climbs out reluctantly. She dries off, brushes her hair and Annie laces her back into her dress just in time, as the squires come in half-supporting an unsteady Marvel. He is dressed in clean clothes, his hair has been cut and brushed neat and he’s even had a shave, his cheeks a fresh pink. He collapses into a chair and groans, resting his forehead on his arms.

“It is much too early,” he mumbles and Madge sits across from him, just barely managing not to roll her eyes. The squires squeeze onto the bench and Annie heads upstairs to fetch Glimmer, the aroma of warm stew making Madge’s stomach rumble. Her mother serves them each a steaming bowl and sits at the head of the table just as Annie and Glimmer come back down, Annie’s arm around her shoulders. Glimmer looks better in clean clothes, her back a little straighter but she tenses as soon as she sees Marvel, her skin drawing tight and her eyes narrowing. A flush crawls over her ice white skin and Madge remembers their fight that very first day, her heart starting to pound.

_oh no_

For a moment it seems as if Glimmer is going to turn around and head back upstairs, but then she straightens her shoulders and sweeps over, her old self possession trickling back in. She sits beside Marvel and peers at her stew in thinly veiled disgust as Annie slips in beside Madge, the two of them sharing a worried look.

“Are you tired my lord?” Glimmer asks in a tight voice and everyone in the room seems to stop breathing. Marvel lifts his head and looks at her, deep bags hanging beneath his eyes.

“I have not been sleeping well,” he replies curtly and one of her fine eyebrows shoots straight up.

“Oh? Well perhaps if you slept in your own bed rather than someone else’s, you might be able to get a good rest,” she suggests with poisonous sweetness and Marvel’s expression turns immediately ugly. Madge swallows a gasp, everyone’s eyes going wide. Glimmer’s implication is obvious, the accusation clear and Marvel sneers furiously.

“I’d love to sleep in my own bed, had _someone_ not banished me from it,” he snaps angrily and red spots bloom in both of Glimmer’s cheeks.

“And that gives you an excuse to go whoring in every brothel in France?” she demands, her voice rising in pitch and Marvel stands abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor.

“I have not been whoring anywhere!” he shouts and Madge cannot help inching back unconsciously. Glimmer lets out a high pitch laugh.

“Really? You expect me to believe you’ve been celibate all these months?”

“Yes!” Marvel barks. “Not that I have any idea why , seeing as I’m married to a shrill cow!” he bellows and Glimmer leaps to her feet, her expression outraged.

“I have been suffering-”

“And I haven’t been?”

“It was your fault!” Glimmer all but screams, tears gathering in her eyes.

“No, it wasn’t!” Marvel roars, enraged and frantic for it to be true.

“I think we should go eat outside,” Madge’s mother says mildly, as if there wasn’t a volcano erupting just beside them.

“Yes it was! It was your idea! This only happened because we had to flee England and we only had to flee because _you_ failed to overthrow Katniss! It was your idea!” Glimmer yells and launches herself at Marvel. She slaps his chest, scratches at his face and pummels his shoulders, her expression somewhat deranged.

“It really is a lovely day, come along,” Margaret says and stands, taking her stew and heading for the door. _Is she really not going to intervene?_

_Or perhaps she thinks they need to work through their problems?_

“Fine, _fine_! It was my idea, but it’s not like you were unaware or in any way opposed to it! You encouraged me every step of the way!” Marvel retaliates, pinning Glimmer’s arms to her sides. “You wanted to be queen just as much as I wanted to be king!”

“Come along, you lot,” her mother calls from the door and they file after her, Glimmer and Marvel turning redder by the second.

“If I’m guilty than so are you!” he bellows and Glimmer shrieks in fury.

“This is not my fault!” she screams and Madge can hear the desperate need in her voice for that to be true.

“Then it isn’t mine!” Marvel shouts back, his eyes bulging out of his head.

“Then whose fault is it?” Glimmer sobs, her body sagging in Marvels’ grip and then Margaret shuts the door with a snap, muffling whatever comes next. She leads them to the very edge of the yard and sits down easily on an upturned bucket, the squires gaping at her. She doesn’t seem to notice and nibbles thoughtfully at her stew.

“I think the litter and the horses should be cleaned up as well, we want to make as good an impression as possible on the king,” she says and the squires all nod. She looks them over as they sit in the grass, her gaze roving over each of them in turn.

“Once that’s done, I think it’ll be time for you to bathe,” she says and Madge sits gingerly on a bale of hay. Robert sniffs himself.

“I suppose we need one,” he agrees and William snorts.

“Ya think? You smell like a rat’s arse.”

He straightens suddenly in alarm, realizing just who he’s sitting with.

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” he says bowing his head and her mother smiles.

“It’s perfectly alright; I’ll have the girls boil you some water.”

Sometime later her mother deems it safe to go back inside and Madge and Annie take in the dishes. They step tentatively through the door but Marvel and Glimmer are nowhere to be seen.

“I suppose they’ve gone upstairs,” Madge says and looks up at the ceiling. Annie shrugs and begins heating the water, Thomas bringing them over some buckets. Madge places the dirty bowls on the counter, ties back her hair and then pushes up her sleeves. She waits for Annie to fill up the sink and a muffled sort of scream travels through the floor above them. Madge frowns and looks up, Annie’s face suddenly red.

“You don't think they’re still fighting, do you?” Madge asks her and she shakes her head quickly, hurriedly filling up Thomas’ buckets. Madge furrows her brow as Annie rushes out to tell the boys their water’s ready and _why is she acting so strange? And what are they doing up there?_

They wash the dishes and then Madge dries her hands, Annie boiling more water so the boys can take their baths.

“I think I’ll go and pick out our clothes for tomorrow, Mother did say she wanted us to leave bright and early,” Madge says and Annie nods, her cheeks still tinted red. She heads upstairs, mind running through all the dresses she owns and it occurs to her that she might have a problem finding a dress for Annie. They aren’t the same size in any way, Annie being taller, slimmer and with a smaller bust size. The latter two aren’t too big an issue, she can always lace the dress very tight, but the height will be a problem. They can’t exactly claim they’ve been keeping Annie in good estate if her ankles are showing.

_Glimmer!_

_Glimmer’s about Annie’s height, she has a larger chest to be sure, but that’s nothing a good lacing can’t fix._

Madge walks over to Glimmer’s door and then pauses. _What if they_ are _still fighting?_ She bites her lip and even if they aren’t, she hasn’t stepped foot in this room once since they’ve been here, it feels almost forbidden. There are memories tied to this room, memories Madge wants nothing more than to forget. _Stop it; we have more important things to worry about._ She knocks firmly and then waits, but there is no response. She knocks again.

“Glimmer? It’s Madge, I really need a favour,” she calls and an audible sigh comes from the other side of the door.

“Fine,” Glimmer snaps, sounding very much like her old self. _Perhaps shouting at Marvel helped her work through her pain?_ There are sounds of movement, a low rumble that might be snoring and then the door swings open. Glimmer stands there in nothing but a robe, her skin flushed and her dishevelled hair tumbling over her shoulders. Madge blinks at her and then her eyes slide over her shoulder to the rumpled bed, a very nude Marvel snoring away on top (on his stomach, thankfully). Madge’s eyes go wide and _oh, OH._

 _I suppose they’ve made up then_.

“Can I help you?” Glimmer demands in annoyance and Madge shakes herself.

“Yes, yes, of course. I need a dress.”

Glimmer glares at her.

“For Annie,” Madge clarifies and Glimmer scoffs.

“I didn't realize we were dressing the help,” she says snidely and Madge forces a smile.

“Annie isn't the help and my mother insists she have a nice dress for tomorrow. You’re closer to her height than I am.”

Glimmer scowls but seems to realize Madge won’t leave without a dress and makes an aggravated noise in her throat.

“Fine, come on then.”

She walks over to a chest by the window and Madge follows, determinedly looking anywhere but at Marvel. Glimmer begins to riffle through her things, probably trying to find her least favourite gown, and Marvel grunts, making Madge jump.

“Here,” Glimmer says, thrusting a dress at her, “don't bother giving it back.”

Madge nods, assuming Glimmer is insinuating the dress will be ruined once Annie uses it.

“Right, thank you,” she says and Glimmer rolls her eyes.

“Close the door on your way out,” she returns in a clear dismissal and when Madge turns to do just that, she catches a glimpse of a naked Glimmer slipping under Marvel’s outstretched arm. Madge pulls the door shut quickly and hurries back to her own room, her cheeks red and burning.

_At least they’re getting along again, that’s good, isn’t it?_

* * *

 

(Marvel’s hand is hot as it rests on her stomach and Glimmer traces a finger over the knuckles, her heart sick.

There are no scars she can see, but she can feel them beneath her skin, feel them inside of her and the memory is still so painful she thinks she might faint. _You’re right my darling_ , _Haymitch did this to us_ , she decides, running a hand through Marvel’s hair, _Haymitch lost us the crown and then he lost us our baby_.

_He ruined us. He is to blame._

_But never again_

_He will not drag us down again_

_We deserve the world my love, and we will have it_ )

* * *

 

Madge lies awake that night and dwells on Marvel and Glimmer, her mind stuck on their apparent reconciliation. She tells herself it is only because she is so mortified, but that is a lie.

She is jealous.

Marvel and Glimmer, they have each other, but Madge does not have Gale. She never will. They won’t find their way back to each other and tears slither down her cheeks as she lays there, his locket ice cold against her skin.

_This isn't fair_

Glimmer and Marvel, they have suffered, she knows that, but even still, envy spends that night breaking her already broken heart.

* * *

 

(Posy and Nella (because Petronella is such a mouthful) look at Vick with pleading eyes and ask, almost in tandem, _Will Madge be okay?_

He wants to say yes but then pauses, because even as grown up as twelve, the workings of kings and queens and traitors is something he doesn’t quite understand. He worries his lip, looks at his little sister and the wife he loves as if she too were his sister and he wishes he were brave like Gale, strong like Rory.

 _What do I say?_ Will _she be alright?_

Posy starts to cry, the sound cutting into his heart and Vick finds himself talking, desperate to stop her tears.

“Of course she will, Gale won’t let anything bad happen to her,” he says and for a moment he believes it. After all, Gale is invincible and valiant and the most amazing person in the world. There is nothing he cannot do and he loves Madge, so of course he’ll protect her.

Except...except there is a tragic look in Gale’s eyes these days and something worse, something Vick is entirely unused to seeing in his brother’s gaze. _Fear_.

And if Gale is afraid, Vick knows deep in his bones that they should all be afraid)

* * *

 

Her mother rouses them early the next morning and Madge swallows a miserable groan. She is achingly exhausted as she trudges downstairs, her whole body leaden and tired. Annie shuffles ahead of her, just as sleepy and neither one had slept, but how could they? Worry had eaten them both all night, nibbling at their toes and scratching at their nerves, chewing little holes in their hopes and plans. Today is the day that changes everything, how could they possibly have slept?

Madge drops like a stone into her chair at the table and she cannot help but scowl as Marvel and Glimmer flounce down into the kitchen arm in arm, both of them rosy cheeked and smiling

(and there is an ache in her heart as they sit glued to each other’s sides at the table, Marvel’s arm around Glimmer’s waist and her eyes watching him adoringly)

( _Gale and I, we’ll never have that_ )

“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, so eat up,” her mother says and Madge sighs dismally.

_wonderful_

There is sop in wine, beef, cheese and apple tarts and Madge rubs at her bleary eyes before digging in. Her mother carries out a tray for the squires, busy readying the horses and litter, and Marvel serves Glimmer, selecting all her food like he used to do with Madge. He seems to think himself quite chivalrous and Glimmer bats her eyelashes at him, her smile coy.

(if you asked, Madge would say she was trying not to gag)

(but really, she’s trying not to cry)

Her mother returns and takes her seat at the table, selecting only a single apple tart to eat. Madge frowns and wants to insist she have more, her figure far too thin and fragile.

“Why does the French king want to see us?” Marvel asks as he feeds Glimmer some sop, his loud voice cutting through Madge’s thoughts. His step-mother smiles.

“Your lord father has been talking with him and now the king wishes to aid us in our time of trouble,” she says and Marvel snorts.

“Hah, how unlike Haymitch to actually succeed in something,” he says nastily and Glimmer titters obnoxiously. Margaret frowns.

“You should not speak of your father in such a way,” she admonishes gently and Marvel grimaces, his green eyes flashing. He opens his mouth, no doubt to say something rude, but Glimmer places a hand on his arm and murmurs something in his ear. He smirks and whispers back, Glimmer giggling and his anger seems to pass, at least for the moment. They finish eating in silence and then it is time to get ready, her mother wanting to leave as quickly as possible. Madge slaps her cheeks in an attempt to wake up and shakes herself all over.

_Today’s the day, I need to be alert_

She and Annie make their way to their room, but before they can go inside, Glimmer’s annoyed voice stops them.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demands and for a moment Madge is confused, before she scowls. It is obvious Glimmer expects Annie to help her dress and Madge grinds her teeth together. _Annie isn’t your servant, you cannot boss her around anymore. Have your lovely husband help you_ , she wants to say but doesn’t, knowing it will do little good.

“I’ll help,” she offers instead and Glimmer shrugs, allowing Marvel to tug her into their room.

“Fetch a squire to help dress my lord,” she calls back over her shoulder at Annie and Madge exhales angrily. She follows them into their room and Marvel flops on the bed and leans against the headboard, his expression insolent. He folds his arms behind his head and Glimmer sits primly on the edge of the bed, the sheets a rumpled disaster beneath them. Madge feels her chest twinge and heads over to Glimmer’s coffer of things, jealousy still thriving in her heart.

She can feel Marvel watching her and when she looks over, there is something sharp and rude in his eyes. _Do you hate me Marvel? Why? Because Katniss wouldn’t let you marry me? Because I couldn’t save your baby? Or because hating me makes it easier to avoid hating yourself?_ She makes a point of dropping his gaze and kneels, popping the lid on Glimmer’s chest. Buried near the bottom is a pretty blue dress sewn with pearls and she stands, holding it out. Glimmer takes one look and scoffs, Marvel offering his most aggravating smirk.  

“Green,” Glimmer barks, her tone suggesting Madge is an idiot and Madge sighs in frustration before choosing a green brocade gown. Glimmer stands with a huff and sweeps over, sticking her arms out so Madge can undress her. She unlaces Glimmer’s nightgown and it puddles around her feet, her skin almost as white as the fabric. Madge winces as she scoops it up and Marvel grins licentiously, his eyes traveling slowly over Glimmer’s naked body. Madge feels distinctly uncomfortable but Glimmer just looks at him with smoldering eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The room seems suddenly much warmer and Madge fumbles with Glimmer’s chemise, her heart prickling as she catches sight of the baggy skin around Glimmer’s stomach. The reminder of that nightmare on the boat is still there, and Madge cannot help a wave of pity.

_If the memories are hard for me, I cannot imagine how it must be for Glimmer._

Madge closes her eyes and forces away the stinging pain, lacing Glimmer into her boots, kirtle and gown. She does her hair for her, binding it all up under a jeweled hennin and there is a burning need to escape inside of her, an urge to flee that shakes its way through her bones.

_I need to get out of here_

“I trust you are able to choose your own jewelry,” she says and leaves before either of them can protest. Her chest feels tight as she passes Thomas in the hall, off to help Marvel dress she supposes, and she slips into her own room. She breathes deep for a moment, back resting against the door and Annie is staring at the clothes Madge had laid out yesterday, a strange expression on her face.

“Annie?” Madge asks tentatively and Annie continues to stare, touching the damask gown from Glimmer with gentle fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I know I used to wear dresses like this all the time, but it feels almost like a dream now.”

Madge feels her heart squeeze and hurries over to throw her arms around Annie. She wishes she could say something but she isn’t sure what she could ever say.

_Sorry my step-father forced you to be my servant?_

It doesn’t seem like enough, but then, Madge isn’t sure any words could be enough.

_Oh Annie, I’m so sorry_

* * *

 

(It is easy, Glimmer realizes, to slip back into the person she used to be.

It’s like putting on her favourite pair of shoes and what does it matter than they aren’t really mended? This new-old attitude allows her to fool herself into thinking they are and that’s the only thing that matters.

For four months she drowned in misery and she cannot do that anymore, _she can’t_. She _needs_ to believe that everything is alright, that they are going to be okay. She needs to be the Glimmer of before, the one that was never broken, the one that stood on top of the world.

So she is)

(and maybe she likes grinding everyone else down, maybe it makes her feel in control, powerful, untouchable)

* * *

 

“Well, I certainly won’t be sorry to see the last of this place,” Glimmer says, casting a sour look back at their little house as Marvel helps her up into the litter and Madge can’t help but agree. Nothing good happened here, nothing but misery and hopelessness.

_That’s over now, things are changing._

Glimmer takes a seat and Marvel helps her mother in, but when it is Madge’s turn to climb inside, he turns and walks away as if she doesn’t even exist. Madge rolls her eyes and climbs inside, Annie just behind her. She shakes her head and goes to sit beside her mother, but then reconsiders. Knowing Glimmer, it is probably best she lets Annie have the seat beside Margaret. She bottles a sigh and sits to Glimmer’s right, receiving an unimpressed look in return. Madge ignores it and then Glimmer curls her lip as Annie enters, looking perfectly ladylike in her borrowed gown. Madge had lent her some jewels and tied ribbons in her hair, but looking at Glimmer’s expression, you’d think they’d allowed a slug to come in and sit beside them. _She and Marvel really are perfectly suited;_ she thinks caustically _, they’re equally as rude and unpleasant._

“I hate long journeys,” Glimmer declares as Annie takes her seat, shooting an almost accusatory glare at her mother-in-law. Margaret chooses not to notice.

“We should reach the king by evening,” she informs them as the litter lurches into movement and Glimmer pouts. Madge slumps slightly, not looking forward to so many hours trapped in this tiny litter, but perhaps it is better this way. Now she will have time to prepare herself.

She will have to approach Haymitch first; winning his support will be crucial. He in turn will convince Louis and after that, well, Enobaria is so dependent on Louis she will have no choice but to accept. Yes, all she needs is to win over Haymitch and she will, she knows it. She runs over every aspect of her plan, again and again, looking for any holes Haymitch or King Louis may try to rip open, but she can find none. She has spent over a month rehearsing what she will say to Haymitch and what she will have to do to make this plan a success and she is determined to see it through.

(of course, convincing Haymitch, Louis and Enobaria is only step one)

(step two…step two will be complicated)

Her survival, her entire family’s and Gale’s and his family’s, it’s all resting on her shoulders. It is a bit like that moment waiting in Westminster to see Katniss for the first time, the rage and fear and desperate plan to save herself, but this is so much stronger, the stakes so much higher. It is not just her and her mother any longer, it is all the others she has come to love and she will not let them down. She ignores the melancholy still bubbling in her blood, cannot let it distract her from what she needs to do. She needs the anger and the confidence of her royal blood, not the heartbreak of knowing that if her plan succeeds, she will be officially, permanently, definitely, signing away any possible chance of a reunion with Gale. If she succeeds in this, they will never see each other again.

(even knowing that, she cannot take off his locket)

* * *

 

When they arrive at King Louis’ palace, Haymitch is waiting outside to greet them.

The sky is deepening into sapphire, the sun a fiery orange as it descends below the horizon and Haymitch looks haggard as he stands there, the toll of these negotiations visible in the bags beneath his eyes and the new lines dug into his skin. _He has done his duty_ , Madge thinks, _but it has cost him dearly_. _Will it cost me just as much?_

The castle is tall and imposing behind him, fleur-de-lis pennants fluttering from the ramparts and she can feel her whole body tightening. She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes steadily, will not be intimidated by Louis’ great stone fortress.

_Be brave Madge, do not falter now_

Marvel leaps nimbly off his horse and does not greet his father, offering him only a sneer. Haymitch wilts and it is clear that even though he has reconciled with Glimmer, Marvel still blames his father for all their misfortunes.

_Perhaps he needs to, perhaps it is the only way he can avoid blaming himself._

Marvel opens the litter door but doesn’t offer his hand to Annie or Madge as they step down, waiting until his step-mother’s turn before becoming helpful. Madge does not even bother hiding her eye roll and she smoothes out her dress, her chest squeezing as she looks up at Louis’ castle. _This is it._ Margaret kisses her husband’s poorly shaven cheek in greeting, a question in her eyes. Haymitch nods slightly to her and she takes his arm, her expression not so much pleased as satisfied. _He must have succeeded, he must have. He wouldn’t have summoned us here otherwise._

“King Louis is eager to meet you all,” Haymitch says and _good, that’ll make things easier._ “But that will have to wait for tomorrow, tonight we’ll get you settled and have some supper.”

He turns and leads her mother inside, Madge linking her arm with Annie’s. She offers her a smile, but Annie can’t quite manage the same, looking as if she might faint. Madge cannot blame her. _It’s been two or three years since she’s last seen her father or Finnick, I can’t imagine what that must feel like._ Madge squeezes her arm and they follow after Haymitch and her mother, Glimmer and Marvel whispering behind them as tiny, little stars start to dot the sky. Haymitch leads them to a suite of rooms, Annie receiving her own bedchamber, and maids arrive to help them unpack. They haven’t been treated like this in months and Madge feels a flare of confidence in her blood.

_if the king is being so kind it must mean Haymitch has gained his favour_

_now it’s my turn_

She can feel her plan burning in her stomach like a hot coal and finally, it’s time to put it into action. She leaves the maids unpacking and walks over to her mother’s room, where she knows she will find her talking with Haymitch. The French castle is old and somewhat chilly now that the sun has set, and Madge cannot help a shiver. She studies the weathered tapestries hung on every wall and _this place seems a bit in disrepair for a king. Why would he want us to meet here? Unless…unless this castle is the one he’s given Enobaria…_

Her skin prickles and she stops just beyond her mother’s door, listening carefully to the voices within.

“He’ll help us then?”

“Yes, you were right. He’ll make it clear to Enobaria that his help is conditional on her accepting us. She will have no choice, she needs Louis and thus she’ll need us. The problem is what we’re going to do after we’ve taken England. As soon as the Lancastrians are secure on their throne, they will no longer need our help and they hold grudges. My aid in this won’t absolve me for helping to remove him in the first place, Coriolanus will be sure to turn on us.”

“We need leverage then.”

“Yes, something we can use to keep them on our side, something to bind them to us.”

“I can do that,” Madge says as she pushes open the door and steps into the room. Her mother looks up in surprise and Haymitch narrows his eyes.

“And how do you plan to do that?” he asks, a shrewd, calculating curiosity on his face. Madge feels Gale’s locket burn against her heart and she knows what she has to do. She takes a deep breath and looks Haymitch straight in the eye.

“I’ll marry Cato.”


	10. the wheel of fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the price of victory has always been steep

_roses are red, roses are white_  
_part two_  
_the thorns of lancaster_  
_chapter two_  
_the wheel of fortune_

“Madge…” her mother breathes, hand up in front of her mouth and Madge steels her resolve. 

“It’s the only way,” she says firmly and Haymitch raises an eyebrow.

“And why would you say that?” he asks, voice level and expression inscrutable. He gives nothing away, offers no clue as to how he feels about her suggestion and _this is a test, isn’t it?_ _No matter, I am ready for you, Haymitch._

“You need something to keep the King from punishing you and I can be that. If I marry Cato, I will have access to the royal family in ways you won’t. You will have someone on the inside, someone who can learn things you cannot, be privy to their secrets and plans and if I play my cards right; I may even win their regard, respect and affection. If I do, I can sway them away from punishing you. Even if I can’t, if you are tied so closely to the king by marriage, as not only his niece’s husband but now father to his daughter-in-law, he will be unable to punish you. He is clever enough to know he is standing on thin ice with the people of England right now; he cannot afford to alienate them further by attacking his own family, especially family that was so instrumental in returning him to the throne. His cruelty is one of the reasons he was deposed in the first place and though no one expects him to be generous to Katniss, they will expect clemency towards his family. Thus, the closer we are bound to him, the safer we will be.”

Her mouth is very dry as she finishes, her heart beats very loud in her ears and Haymitch nods slowly, her mother’s expression grim. Madge knows looking in her eyes that no matter how much she hates this, her mother agrees with every word she’s said. _And what about you Haymitch?_

“I see you have put a lot of thought into this,” he says and she nods, ears pricked to every current and nuance in his words.

“I have. Were there another option, I would take it. But there isn’t, is there?” she asks, her own voice somewhat hollow and Haymitch shakes his head.

“No, I suppose there isn’t.”

Madge had known this already and yet still she feels her stomach drop, that last vain hope that Haymitch would have some other clever plan withering to nothing. _I really am going to marry Cato._

_Oh Gale…_

“I will arrange it with King Louis,” Haymitch says wearily, “I am sure he will be agreeable. Your blood and, even more importantly, your vast inheritance will be invaluable to a monarchy as penniless as the Lancastrians. Enobaria, however much she will detest it, will not be able to refuse the match.”

Madge nods, her hands tightening into fists.

“There is one condition though,” she says softly and Haymitch raises both heavy brows.

“A condition?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “I am doing this to help you, so you must help me in return. I want you to give me your word that Katniss, Gale and his family will be safe. I don’t care how you do it, secure a pardon, arrange their exile, just do not let them die.”

There is a moment of tense, horrible silence and Haymitch’s expression turns stormy.

“I would never let anything happen to them,” he rumbles, anger crackling in his voice but Madge ignores it.

“Give me your word Haymitch,” she repeats and he glares at her, his gray eyes dark.

“You have it. They are my family Madge; I would not see them come to any harm,” he says, a note of danger in his voice. She nods, her body taut, her blood chilled to ice.

 “Good. For if anything does happen to them, I will hold you responsible and I will make sure the King offers you no clemency, no mercy,” she promises and her mother’s eyes widen.

_(oh my sweet Madge, when did you grow up to be so hard?)_

_(if I only I could have spared you this)_

 “I would want none should I fail them,” Haymitch says gravely and Madge looks deep into those stony eyes, peels back layer after layer to the soul hidden beneath and believes it.

_We are both torn aren’t we Haymitch?_

_I wonder, will we ever be put back together?_

* * *

 

(Annie hears the knock on her door and gasps at the look on Madge’s face.

She does not ask what’s wrong, she merely opens her arms and lets Madge fall into them. She holds her friend, strokes her hair and sings until she falls asleep, her heart sore and weeping.

_Oh Madge, oh Madge, what have you done?_ )

* * *

 

Madge falls into Annie and does not sob.

She thinks of the sorrowful look her mother had cast her, thinks of Gale as she last saw him, handsome and brave upon his horse, thinks of Cato and his knuckles on her cheek. She breathes in Annie, comforting, steadfast Annie and knows she will not waver from her chosen path. It is wicked this world they live in, but it is the only one they have.

_Survive, survive survive._

_I will_

_And I will cry no longer for the life I’ll never have_

She closes her eyes, shivers slightly in Annie’s arms and forces down the tears straining to fall.

_To weep would be to mourn and I cannot mourn. If I mourn I will yearn and if I yearn I will never forget and if I never forget, how will I ever survive this new turn of fortune?_

She bites her lip, clings to Annie all the tighter and knows what she has to do.

_Goodbye Gale, goodbye my heart and that future we can never have._

_Goodbye_

* * *

 

_(Is this courage papa?_

_Is it meant to feel this wretched?_ )

* * *

 

(Gale lies in bed and tangles his fingers through Madge’s handkerchief, the silk sliding across his skin.

_Burn it_ , says the voice in his head

_Tear it, toss it aside, be rid of it_

( _and her_ )

He doesn’t, he won’t and he tucks it beneath his pillow instead.

_I am yours wholly_ he’d carved into her brooch and he is. No matter the distance, the years, the battle lines, he is. Foolish maybe, hopeless possibly, but then, he has always been stubborn)

* * *

 

Madge wakes the next morning and swears to herself that she has let Gale go for good, forever.

(the locket still resting against her heart tells a slightly different story)

It is late in the day, noontime sun painting the chamber in hues of gold and Madge carefully extricates herself from Annie’s embrace before forcing herself up. Her feet are heavy as she makes her way back to her chambers and as much as she tries to convince herself that releasing her hold on Gale is the best thing to do, there is a stubborn streak in her that is not yet ready to abandon hope.

_What a fool I am_

She reaches her cold, empty rooms and as soon as she shuts the door, loneliness seems to seep from every wall. The chambers are beautiful on their own, with rich wood furniture, plush bedcovers and intricate tapestries upon the well scrubbed walls, but there is no life in them, not a single breath. Her arched window looks out at the coastline and yellow sunlight falls upon the floor rushes, but there is no warmth in its rays. Madge allows a moment for melancholy, feels it infect her every organ, but then she shoves it aside. The French are not her friends, nor the Lancastrians, but that does not matter. She has Annie, her mother and the promise of safety for Gale, Prim, Katniss and the Hawthornes. One day, she will even have the crown of England.

That is enough.

(it has to be)

Madge moves over to her coffer of things and pulls out every one of her gowns and lays them out to see. Just like when she first met her new Yorkist masters, she must choose her outfit with acre. She must make a good impression today if she wants any hope of succeeding with her plan. The travel gowns are a definite no, the more casual ones as well, but so too the most ostentatious. She needs to look pretty, young, sweet but important. A rod of iron wreathed in fragrant roses.

Her eyes settle on the white silk gown she wore to Katniss’ coronation, the gold velvet edges soft under her fingertips. For a kirtle she chooses white again, simple and innocent and entirely nonthreatening. She is laced into both by a group of maids sent by Louis and then a golden girdle with silver thread. The maids arrange her hair into artful braids woven with satin ribbons and there is an itch beneath Madge’s skin, one she cannot hope to scratch. She needs Louis to approve of her, needs him to support the idea of her marriage to Cato. If he does not, if she and Haymitch cannot convince him to, then Madge will have failed Gale, his family, Katniss, Prim, Peeta, all of them. Anxiety pours into her stomach like wine into a goblet at the thought and for a moment her vision blurs, gray stone walls and embroidered tapestries swirling together.

_No, no, I must be brave_

_I must be my own white knight_

She closes her eyes, forces away every tremor and no matter what she feels on the inside, she cannot let it show, will not. These Lancastrians are fierce, feral and if they smell even the slightest hint of weakness, they will not hesitate to tear her to pieces. _Never let them see me, never never never._ Madge blinks until her vision clears and breathes deeply, coating herself in frost and determination.  

_I can do this_

Madge opens her eyes as the maids add the finishing touches to her ensemble, Katniss’ pearl headband in her hair and pretty gold baubles hanging from her ears.  

“Thank you very much,” she says with a glass smile, “you may go.”

They each curtsy and file out, Madge’s eyes turning to her reflection in the mirror. She runs over aspect of her appearance, cannot afford a single hair out of place. Her jewels glitter, her gown is spotless, her hair shines but her gaze catches as she looks at her face. Her expression is hard and the blue eyes looking back at her are so cold she can feel their chill but _I have no other choice. I cannot be how I used to be. If I want to survive I must be made of iron and ice_. It is a bitter, mournful realization but she has gone too far to back down now. She stands and touches each of the three rings she never takes off before pressing her palm to Gale’s locket hanging beneath her kirtle.

_I am Madge of Bedford and I am not afraid_

_I am brave_

One last breath and then she turns from the room, refuses to cast a look back at the girl in the mirror.

_Do not look back, only forward_

The halls are mostly empty but even still, Madge keeps her mask in place and runs over every step of her plan again and again. _I have Haymitch, now I must win Louis and then Enobaria and Cato. Be sweet and charming and graceful but do not be weak. They need me as much as I need them, remember that._

Annie is waiting for her around the next corner, dressed in Glimmer’s borrowed gown and with her dark hair gleaming. Madge’s jewels sparkle on her ears and neck, that ring that must be from Finnick bright on her finger. There is no mask on Annie’s face, no attempt to hide her feelings, but then, Annie has ever been an open book.

( _is that strength? Or weakness?_ )

(Madge finds herself unable to tell anymore)

Annie looks at her with such stark, naked worry that Madge feels her knees grow weak and her legs tremble. She tries to smile but it is devoid of any comfort and for a moment she is afraid Annie might ask what’s wrong, might demand to know why Madge came to her chambers last night so upset.  Madge does not think she can answer that, does not think she is ready to make everything so real, and worse, she is not sure Annie would understand. She cannot lose Annie, but she knows that whatever they have in common, their ideas on survival have ever differed.

_I wonder, which one of us has it right?_

Thankfully, Annie asks only with her eyes and Madge can ignore that (and the sting of guilt that goes with it), so she does, and leads Annie down the hall. Their silence is thick and Madge wonders if that rift formed over Gale has ever really healed, or if they’d just bandaged over it. Annie is her best friend, Gale the love of her life, so why are they pulling her in such different directions?

_Curse these evil times, curse them, curse them, curse them_

They reach the solar gifted to her mother and knock lightly on the wooden door, her mother’s thin voice calling them inside. They step through the door and her mother sits alone by the window, her hair trapped beneath a bejeweled butterfly hennin. Her gown is a deep, dark blue and it makes her skin seem all the paler while the faint sun lighting her face does little to add colour to her cheeks. Madge stares and cannot help but wince at the white hands knotted in her mother’s lap, each one vivid with blue veins. _I_ _have been ailing since the day I was born, Joseph, we both know I shall never be well_ , Madge recalls her mother saying but _Mama, how long can you truly last like this?_

Her mother turns towards them and smiles, the expression not quite managing to reach her eyes.

“Good morning. Please, have a seat,” she says and they do. “Haymitch is with the King, but I thought we might have dinner together.”

Madge nods and then the door opens again, her low spirits plummeting as Marvel and Glimmer waltz inside. Marvel looks down his nose at them and just like Madge, he is dressed in his very best. Pointed silver shoes upon his feet, silken hose of blue and gold stripes, a royal blue doublet made of soft velvet and trimmed with gold, a silver belt covered in jewels, a great silver chain of office draped over his chest bearing all his various insignia, and with countless precious rings adorning every finger, he looks fit to be royalty himself. He preens just like his peacock badge and struts deeper into the room, pulling Glimmer along with him. She sparkles beside him, her ears, wrists, fingers and neck weighed down with gems. Her houppelande is green brocade with pretty silver thread and her hennin is monstrously tall, wire frames holding up shimmering lace veils around her face. Even her satin girdle glitters with emeralds and golden embroidery.

“Ah, Mother dearest, how good of you to invite us,” Marvel smarms and leads Glimmer to one of the empty seats. He sits down beside her and whatever warmth there had once been in the room seems to have vanished. Servants bring out food and Madge knows she must eat even as her stomach shrivels within her.

“So where is your husband this morning?” Marvel asks, filing those two words with more venom than Madge would have thought possible. Her mother frowns.

“He is with the King. We shall join them once we’ve finished eating.”

_And what is Haymitch doing? Proposing my betrothal?_

“Well, I hope the Duke doesn’t bungle things too badly before we get there,” Marvel says with a smirk and Glimmer laughs. Madge bites her tongue and cannot help but feel uneasy at the obvious divide between father and son.

_I know why you hate him Marvel, but we cannot have this_

_There is much blame to go around; we cannot heap it all upon one person_

_Especially now_

“That is enough Marvel,” her mother says sharply and Marvel turns so fast his neck cracks, his eyes wide and startled. “I do not wish to hear you speak of your lord father in such a way ever again.”

Her mother skewers him with her eyes and he sits there, dumbstruck, looking as shocked by the rebuke as if she’d slapped him. There is a hideous tension in Madge’s stomach and fury climbs all over Marvel’s face, blotting out everything else. He swallows with difficulty.

“Forgive me Mother, I spoke out of turn,” he forces out, each word a struggle. Margaret nods, smiles with understanding and pats his hand, but Madge is certain her mother can see the rage still smoldering in his eyes. Marvel does not like to be crossed, hates being told he’s wrong and especially with an audience.

He will not forget this.

Always needing to be the center of attention, he begins a loud tale of something or other but Madge does not listen. Marvel has not forgiven Haymitch, not for his lost heir nor his lost crown and she can only imagine how he will react to finding out they will be supporting a Lancastrian restoration. He is dangerous, commands many men and great wealth, they cannot afford him as an enemy. But how to soften him? He is arrogant, entitled and thinks he deserves the world. His thwarted ambition is like a disease, eating away at him and he is a volcano, one about to boil over.

Madge can only hope they survive the explosion.

* * *

 

As soon as they finish eating, it is time to meet the king.

Marvel rises first and offers an arm each to Glimmer and his step-mother. Madge stands slowly after they’ve swept from the room and unclenches her hands; she cannot afford any outward sign of tension. She breathes in deeply and exhales, hoping this will help to steady the waves crashing in her stomach. There is a memory tugging at her mind and she thinks back to her first meeting with Katniss, Gale and Haymitch. _Was it really over two years ago? I made it through that, I can make it through this. I will be whatever King Louis wants me to be._

Warm fingers reach out and grasp hers, their pressure a welcome anchor in Madge’s sea of worry. She turns and Annie smiles at her, her own nerves flickering in her eyes. Madge squeezes her hand and they move out into the hall together, following the echo of Marvel, Glimmer and Margaret’s footsteps. _I have done it before, I can do it again._

_(but do I really want to?)_

They come to a halt outside a pair of heavyset doors and her mother murmurs into the ear of the man stationed just beside them. He nods and slips into the room beyond, Madge’s eyes drifting out a tall window to her left. There is a church spire glinting in the distance, a small town spilling out in a tangle of streets and then lazy green fields stretching off to the horizon. It looks so peaceful, so calm and she cannot help but wonder if England looks the same, or if even the land lies as scarred as its people.

_I wonder, can you smell all that spilled blood on the air?_

The great double doors swing open and Haymitch steps out, his eyes probing over each of them. He nods.

“Best behavior,” he warns and Marvel scowls. He opens his mouth but his step-mother touches his sleeve and the words stall on his tongue. He grimaces and shakes away her fingers, Glimmer’s eyes narrowing and her nails sinking into his skin.

_(you are a viper, mother dear, aren’t you?)_

_(just like your daughter)_

Madge tightens her grip on Annie for a brief moment and then lets her go, knowing she cannot rely on anyone else to get her through this. _You are Madge Undersee. You can do this_. Haymitch holds out his arm for his wife and she takes it, the two of them leading the way inside. Marvel and Glimmer follow after, Madge and Annie bringing up the rear and _this is it_.

The room they enter is long and high ceilinged with great, tall windows that bathe the room in sunshine. That light glitters off silver candlesticks and pools over glossy wood benches that line either side of the room, bathing everything in shades of yellow and gold. Grand tapestries hang on the walls and a long carpet stretches from the door to the far end of the room and a gilt edged throne. A hunched man sits on that throne, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled. He is too far for Madge to see his face, but she knows he is watching them, a shiver snaking its way up her spine. She drops her head as they approach and makes sure not to meet his eyes, peeking up at him through her lashes instead. This must be King Louis but she would never have guessed it for he wears no crown, no royal insignia, nor even costly garments. He is dressed in plain, rough clothes, his skin is sallow and he has both a large nose and very little chin. He smiles at them as they grow nearer, a curling, laughing smile, but it does not reach his eyes. They are cold and dark, dark, dark.

“Your Majesty, may I present my wife, the Lady Margaret,” Haymitch says with a bow and Louis’ eyes focus on her mother as she curtsies.

“Coriolanus’ niece, yes?” he asks in an almost mocking tone and Margaret nods.

“Indeed, your Grace,” she murmurs and Louis smiles as if he’s suddenly remembered a very funny joke.

“My son Marvel, Earl of Northumberland and his countess, the Lady Glimmer,” Haymitch continues and the King drops his eyes upon them, both Glimmer and Marvel hastily falling into an obeisance. Louis looks at them for only a moment, his disinterest plain, before he rests his heavy gaze on Madge. She prickles but does not react.

“Lady Anne, the daughter of the Earl of Oxford, and finally my step daughter, the Lady Madge.”

Madge drops into a deep curtsy and holds it until her legs cramp. Louis lets out a pleased hum.

“Rise,” he says and she does, keeping her posture as straight as she can. From the very corner of her eyes she catches sight of Glimmer, her mouth thinning into an envious line.

“You must be eager to see your great uncle restored to the throne, Lady Madge,” the King says in that same nearly taunting tone and Madge’s mind races, dashing through every possible answer until she settles on the one she believes best tailored for her audience.

“It is my deepest wish for God’s true sovereign to wear England’s crown, your Majesty,” she answers softly and even though Marvel hisses something foul beneath his breath, it is Haymitch’s approving nod that tells her she has said the right thing.

“As do we all,” Louis says with a secret smile. Madge narrows her eyes and dissects that smile, pulls it apart and stares at it from every which way. _Haymitch was surely telling you all about the engagement this morning, have I your approval? You cannot turn down my vast inheritance, but what of me? Do I measure up?_

“I am well pleased with your family, Lord Haymitch, as I am sure my cousin will be,” Louis says and Haymitch nods gratefully, affecting another bow.

“My deepest thanks, your Majesty.”

Louis nods and smiles again, his cold eyes finding Madge’s.

_He is laughing_ , she thinks, _but who at? Me? Or the Lancastrians?_

* * *

 

“What did he mean by that?” Marvel demands as soon as they leave the room. “Cousin? What cousin?”

Haymitch closes his eyes.

“He was referring to Queen Enobaria,” he says and Marvel recoils.

“Enobaria? What does that faithless whore have to do with anything?”

“Stay your tongue,” Haymitch snaps and Marvel’s eyes widen sharply. Haymitch takes a deep breath.

“Enobaria is to be our new ally. And it is she who will get us back to England and back into favour.”

Marvel shakes his head in angered disbelief.

“You cannot be serious. We fought and bled to topple the Lancastrians from the throne and now you would place them back upon it? Have you lost your mind? They are a pack of ravening lunatics intent on vengeance. They will not forgive us! They will not just hand us all we desire on a silver plate! They will n-“

“That is enough,” his step mother interrupts, her hand clamping down on his arm. Marvel stares at her in absolute bewilderment, lips parted in surprise. “Do not make me repeat myself Marvel. I have already told you not to speak to your father so. Furthermore, we have little choice. Either we join with Enobaria or we return to Harfleur and rot.”

Marvel shuts his mouth so quickly his teeth clack together and narrows his eyes, blotchy patches of rage starting to bloom all across his skin. Madge waits with bated breath for the explosion and her mother lightly increases her pressure on Marvel’s arm. Haymitch takes a deep breath, the new lines in his face suddenly so much starker.

“You still have a few days yet to reconcile yourself to the idea before you will be required to pledge her your allegiance,” he says, tone soft and almost pleading, and Madge swallows a gasp at the sudden pain flashing in his eyes.

_Oh Haymitch_

Marvel opens his mouth and then snaps it shut, his glare scorching as it rakes over each of them. Madge can practically feel her skin bubbling under that look and then Marvel brushes off his step-mother’s hand, contemptuous eyes boring into hers. There is a gasp Madge barely manages to restrain and Marvel grabs hold of Glimmer’s elbow, spins on his heel and storms away.

_This isn’t good_

A tense silence follows his departure, every one of their eyes on his back. Haymitch releases a defeated sigh.

“I suppose you will do her homage first?” Margaret asks to pull his attention away from Marvel and he nods.

“Yes. I may have Louis’ endorsement, but I still need to win over Enobaria. I am sure she will agree, but I am equally sure she will make me suffer for it.”

Madge bites her lip and cannot help but agree. She has not seen Enobaria in over two years, but the Queen she remembers is not the forgiving type.

_She will make us bleed for this._

_Still, what is sacrifice in the face of survival?_

* * *

 

(Enobaria is cold, harsh and her hatred burns clearly on every inch of her. Haymitch had expected nothing less.

She stands tall and hostile before him as he kneels and every word from his lips draws a hiss from hers. He remains polite, dignified and eager to serve but all he can see when he looks at her are his two uncles’ severed heads on pikes, one that could be Katniss if she were a man, the other a softened, older likeness of Gale. He remembers riding into York and seeing those heads up on the gate, the Duke of York’s head decorated with a mocking paper crown. He can still feel Katniss’ quiet fury, Gale’s explosive rage and hears his own voice, more thunderous than he had ever expected.

_“Whose idea was this?”_

He can hear too the weeping of terrified citizens and the mayor on his knees before him.

_“The Queen, Your Grace. We are sorry, we are so sorry. Forgive us, please.”_

He finishes his petition and Enobaria sneers, a heap of insults falling from her lips to bury him. He may see rotting heads belonging to men he’d once loved, but when she looks at him she sees her husband riding away, leaving her and their son in London to face Yorkist wrath all on their own. She feels the icy winds on her face as she takes Cato and flees to Scotland, enemies hungry for blood hot on their tail. She sees burning castles and smells acrid smoke on the air, sees the rage on her boy’s face when he hears his inheritance has been stolen from him. Enobaria looks at Haymitch and keeps him on his knees for over a quarter of an hour, vicious, furious disparagements tumbling out of her mouth and landing upon his head. She remembers the fear and fury he had brought to her, this leader of Yorkist hopes, when he had stormed her kingdom and set her country aflame. She is an exile because of him, her son a wanted man with a price on his head.

_Damn you to Hell Haymitch Abernathy_

_Damn you_

Finally, when Enobaria’s well of insults has run dry, she has her attendants bring out one of France’s most sacred relics, a shard of the True Cross itself.

“Swear,” she commands, “swear me your fealty upon this most Holy Relic if you are truly sincere.”

To break an oath sworn upon the True Cross would be instant damnation, would be a promise of hellfire for eternity and there is an evil glint in her eyes as he makes his vow. _I suppose she wins either way. If I do not keep my word she will have her revenge on me both in this world and the next, and if I do keep it, she and her family will be returned to the throne._

_I have sold my soul to the Devil_

_Please, let it be worth it_ )

* * *

 

(of course, she does not agree to the engagement right away)

(she insists she must first have a look at Madge)

(this is merely a show of force, he knows, a chance for her to remind him that she is a queen)

(but she will agree in the end)

(queen or not, her choices are as restricted as his)

* * *

 

It is a little over a week after their meeting with Louis when Enobaria summons them. Madge is laced into blue damask and chains of pearls and she cannot help but remember the last time she saw the queen.

March, Westminster, a man bringing them the dreadful news of Lancaster’s defeat. She can picture Enobaria clearly, her face hard and her mind whirring, and _how must it have felt to know your husband had abandoned you_? Cato too she can see, angry, red and violent, and maybe frightened too (not that he’d ever have admitted it). Her cheek throbs at the memory and _I wonder, will he be at this meeting too?_

Madge stands and smooths out her gown with her hands, the material cool and soft to the touch. She looks in the mirror and this time she does not flinch from the cold, bitter girl looking back. _I hope Cato is there. For the sooner I start on him, the better_.

Annie is waiting for her in the hall in another borrowed gown, this one a bold yellow with silver thread. Fidgety fingers tuck hair behind her ears again and again, while her teeth chew into her bottom lip, so much so that it is spotted with blood. Madge reaches forward and takes one of those twitching hands, Annie’s big eyes impossibly wide. _Of course she is anxious_. _Today might be the day she is finally reunited with her father and Finnick_. Annie barely seems to notice her, worry crackling in her eyes and every breath she takes. Madge does not blame her. They head to her mother’s rooms together and both she and Haymitch are already waiting outside for them.

Glimmer and Marvel are nowhere to be seen.

_Will they really not come? Is Marvel so upset at losing his chance at a crown that he would rather sulk in Harfleur than go home? Is he to be our enemy now?_ She can see her questions etched into Haymitch’s face as he peers down the hallway, his posture so rigid he could be made of stone. _What do we do if Marvel turns against us? Will he merely sit by and pout? Or will he use his influence to thwart us?_

“We do not wish to keep the Queen waiting,” Margaret says gently and places a hand on her husband’s arm. He closes his eyes briefly and then nods, his face pinched with sorrow. He heaves a sigh and they turn to leave, only to stop at the sound of approaching footsteps. All four of them look together down the hall and there are Marvel and Glimmer marching towards them.

Never, in all the time she has known him, has Madge ever been so relieved to see Marvel.

Haymitch melts momentarily with that same relief but soon wilts when Marvel shoulders roughly past him, his expression murderous. Glimmer sniffs and deliberately turns her face away from them, the mood suddenly coated in frost. Cleary Marvel and Glimmer have decided they would rather return to England over Harfleur, but their behavior makes one thing very clear. They have not forgotten, will not forgive and their house remains perilously divided.

_At least let us reach England before this gulf becomes too great to breach._

* * *

 

“We shall go in first. Wait here until we send for you,” Haymitch instructs them as they stand outside a door hung with the Lancastrian coat of arms. Armed men guard each side and Madge suppresses a shudder at the sight of Coriolanus’ silver wolf stitched upon their breasts.

“I am not a child,” Marvel says acidly from his spot leaning against the stone wall and Glimmer narrows her eyes at Haymitch, both her hands tucked around Marvel’s arm. Haymitch clenches his jaw and it is Margaret who answers her churlish step-son.

“No, you are a great and noble knight of England,” she says and though the words are mild, there is a command in her words, one that stiffens Marvel’s spine and flashes in his eyes. Glimmer glares, her grip on Marvel tightening still further. Haymitch looks between wife and son for one tense moment before he nods.

“As I said, we will go first.”

The door is opened for them and the Duke and Duchess of Clarence glide through with perfect poise, their dignity gleaming like armor. _What a pair they make,_ Madge thinks _, Mother wasting to nothing and Haymitch haggard and bloodshot. Still, there is a presence to them, one I would not want to cross._ Annie strains to catch a glimpse of those within before the door swings shut and Madge grimaces in sympathy. _Are the Earl of Oxford and Finnick in there right now? And do they know Annie is right here?_

The wait feels torturously long and Madge covers herself in steel, for even without swords, this will be a hard won battle. _Today is only about first impressions. Plant the seed and in the days to come, help it flourish_. Her heart is rabbit fast in her chest, but outside she is calm, her eyes sweeping over each of her companions with cool detachment. Marvel and Glimmer stay tucked away in the corner whispering poison into each other’s ears and Madge feels her organs harden as her gaze flits over them. _I won’t let them ruin this_. Glimmer must feel her looking, for she turns suddenly, venom hot in her green eyes.

“Might I help you with something?” she asks, her voice sickly sweet, and Madge smiles.

“I was just admiring your gown. You look ever so lovely.”

There is nothing cruel or rancorous she can say to that, so Glimmer turns away with a sniff, her cheeks a blotchy pink. Madge drops her smile. Annie trembles to her right, so pale she looks as if she may faint and Madge feels her mask slip. She reaches for Annie in concern but the door opens again, freezing her in her tracks. A servant dressed in burgundy steps out, a Lancastrian badge blazoned on his chest.

“Lord Marvel, the Queen is ready for you,” he says with a bow and Marvel sneers as he pushes off the wall. Glimmer lifts her chin and they follow the servant into the chamber, their lordly air thick enough to choke. Annie releases a quiet, distressed sound and Madge slides an arm around her waist and squeezes. Annie closes her eyes and presses her hands to her chest and then they wait, every second stretching out until they feel as if they’ve waited days.

And then, finally, the door opens again.

Madge expects the same servant to return but it is someone else that slips through the doorway and shuts it behind him, his green green eyes anxious as he looks around the hall. Madge gasps, for though it has been eight years since she’d last seen him, she recognizes him in an instant.

“Finnick?” Annie asks in a voice so small but full of hope it makes tears spring suddenly to Madge’s eyes. He stumbles backwards into the door at Annie’s voice, his mouth open and eyes wide. He had been thirteen the last time Madge had seen him and handsome even then. At twenty one, he is positively stunning. He is golden skinned and tall with an athletic build; perfectly sculpted cheek bones; a nose straight and just the right length; even, white teeth; beautiful bronze hair; and (a real weakness of Madge’s) a strong,  well defined jaw line. But it is none of those things that draw Madge’s attention, it is his eyes. They are greener than green and so vibrant she could never do them justice, but it is the way they look at Annie that steals the breath from Madge’s lungs. He gazes at her like she is the sun, the moon and every star shining in the sky, like she is the only thing he has ever wanted to see.

(once she had been worried if Finnick loved Annie as much as she loved him)

(Madge knows now she was a fool to ever doubt it)

“Annie,” he breathes and the sound of her name wrapped in his voice sends a shiver down Madge’s back. Annie covers her mouth with her hands and starts to cry, but still she stares at him, unable to look away. And then, before Madge really knows what’s happening, they are together. They collide and nearly collapse with the force of their reunion, their arms holding each other impossibly close. Annie is not the only one crying and Finnick sobs into her hair, “Annie, Annie, Annie,” tumbling from his lips.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re really here,” she keeps saying and there is so much joy and wonder in those words that Madge starts to cry her own tears. She wipes uselessly at her eyes and Finnick pulls back just enough to drink in Annie’s face again, his eyes hungry for every inch of her. He strokes her cheeks tenderly, tucks hair behind her ear with soft, soft fingers and leans in slowly for a kiss. Annie flutters her eyes closed, tilts her chin up to meet him and when they kiss, Madge releases the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She has never witnessed a kiss like this, filled with so much love and desperation and relief, and suddenly she feels intrusive for looking, like she is spying on something intensely private. She turns away quickly and it is then that she notices the door opening.

_No, not now. Let them have this moment,_ she begs but still the door opens. Madge hurries over and blocks the servant man from coming out, her mask hastily back in place.

“Am I being summoned?” she asks quietly, not wanting to break Annie and Finnick from their moment, and he nods, looking at her in surprise. She offers him her most reassuring smile.

“Wonderful,” she says and squeezes past him into the chamber, firmly shutting the door behind her as she does.

“Was there not another?” he asks, reaching for the door handle, and Madge shakes her head quickly.

“No, not at all. Just me.”

He frowns but does not want to contradict her and eventually he bows.

“Of course, my lady. The Queen awaits you.”

He gestures to the other end of the room and Madge turns slowly, iron filling her blood. This audience chamber is not so big as King Louis’ great hall, but it still reeks of royal authority. The long room is smoky with too many candles, magnificent banners hang on every inch of wall, each one bearing England’s royal emblems, and at the far end is a dais with a high backed chair. Lancastrian exiles stand on either side of the room, but Madge pays them little heed. It is the almost throne at the back that draws her eyes, especially the two people standing just in front of it.

Queen Enobaria is much like Madge remembers her, straight backed, narrow eyed and with her sharp teeth bared in displeasure. She is dressed in royal purple trimmed with ermine, a glittering crown set upon her dark hair. Her stare is hard and unforgiving and Madge knows she is being sized up and found wanting. She does not take it to heart. After all, she knows full well she could be the Blessed Virgin herself and Enobaria would still find fault.

A step behind the Queen stands her son and Madge carefully runs over him with her eyes, cataloging every difference their two years apart have wrought. Cato is eighteen now, taller, sturdier, broader of chest and with arms thick with muscle. He is square jawed with a long nose, prominent eyebrows and brown eyes so dark they could almost be black. His pink skin is darkened by a summer tan, a silver coronet sits in his buttery blonde hair and though his face is more angular, his jaw line sharper, his expression is just the same as always. He might be handsome but it is impossible to tell through the snarl curling his mouth, the angry crease in his brow, the flaring nostrils and livid eyes. Her cheek aches but she ignores it, focuses instead on being as sweet and demure as possible. She does not hurry, keeps her steps graceful and meets no one’s eyes. Her breathing is calm, her hands folded over her girdle and when she reaches the royal family, she sinks into a deep, deep curtsy, all the way to the floor. She stays there even though it is uncomfortable, will stay there as long as necessary.

“Get up,” Enobaria commands, treating Madge more like a servant than a family member. She rises, keeps her head down and does not react to Enobaria’s hostile greeting. They stay like that, Enobaria’s eyes boring into her and Madge wonders just how long she is to be scrutinized. _What are you looking for? And do you know of our plans already?_

“Have you anything to say to us?” Enobaria asks, her voice like a razor blade against Madge’s skin. Madge dips her head farther in grave obeisance.

“I am humbled to be in your presence again, Majesty, and I thank our Lord in Heaven for keeping you safe. I should like to offer you my service in any way you require.”

Cato makes a rude noise but Madge does not mind. She knows there is nothing she can say or do today that will win them, that will make Queen and Prince love her. It will take time and strategy, for first she must take their measure and discover just what will please them best. Her only task for today is to open the door and give them nothing in her behavior to criticize.

“I have no need of your service,” Enobaria says in harsh dismissal but Madge merely bows deeper.

“As you wish, your grace. I am yours to command.”

( _and soon, I shall make you mine to command_ )

* * *

 

The audience dissolves into a reception after that, exiles mixing and mingling, and Madge heads towards her mother. She is almost there when Cato snags her sleeve. He leans in close, his breath hot upon her face.

“I hear you were betrothed to that wretch Salisbury,” he says and there is something wicked brewing in his eyes. “I wonder Cousin; did you spread your legs for him? Is there even now a bastard Yorkist just waiting to burst from your wanton womb?”

There is laughter in his voice, cruel, mocking laughter and Madge shakes with the urge to slap him. _You horrid, foul, nasty little beast_ she seethes but cannot let it show. Instead she fidgets in embarrassment.

“Of course not, your Highness,” she whispers in shy horror, “I would never do such a thing with a man not my husband.”

He drops her sleeve and steps back and one bashful peek at his face is enough to gauge his fury. He wanted a scene, wanted to make her look the fool and now he is turning crimson from her refusal to play his putrid little game. He stalks away and Madge watches him go, sweet and shy replaced by iron and vengeance.

_You won’t be easy, will you Cato? No matter, if it is a battle of wills you want, it is one you will have._

* * *

 

(Annie listens to Finnick’s heartbeat and never, never, has any sound filled her with so much all consuming bliss. He is warm and soft and alive in her arms tonight and she is almost afraid to fall asleep, for what if she opens her eyes tomorrow to find all this was just a dream?

_If this is a dream, do not wake me from it_

“I love you,” he says again and she smiles, could hear it a thousand more times and never grow tired of it.

“I love you too,” she answers and his arms around her tighten, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She snuggles deeper into his embrace and she knows there is so much to talk about, battles, exiles, betrayals and dark days in a Tower cell, but not tonight. Two years is too long and she yearns to know everything she’s missed, yearns too to tell him everything that happened in England without him. For this moment though, this gentle, peaceful moment, she wants only to be Annie and Finnick, war and politics locked out in the hall.

Tomorrow they will talk and the shadows will creep back in, but tonight, tonight she is nothing but sunlight)

* * *

 

(“I do not like her,” Enobaria says and Haymitch knows better than to take offense on Madge’s behalf.

“I want only to help you, my Queen,” he says and Enobaria glares at him.

“No, you want to help yourself,” she snaps and he does not bother to deny it. Allies they might grudgingly be, but they will never be friends. Enobaria grinds her teeth together, stretches out the time before her answer but Haymitch does not worry. As much as she certainly hates this betrothal, she needs it. They both do.

Enobaria continues to glower and gnash her teeth and Haymitch finds his mind drifting to his stepdaughter. He had known from their first meeting that Madge had a certain measure of cunning, but he had not realized just how much until France. But then, perhaps he should have. The purest Lancastrian left in England, she had manipulated her way into the Queen’s confidence, into Prim’s affection and deep into Gale’s heart. Katniss was always slow to trust and there could not have been anyone in England more determined to loath Lancaster than Gale, and yet, Madge had won them both.

How long had he urged Katniss to behave in a similar manner, to lie with a smile and put aside personal feelings to achieve their goals? But then, perhaps it was for the best that she hadn’t. Katniss has the righteousness, the conviction and the battle prowess already, if she had Madge’s cunning and calculated charm, she would be unstoppable.

_(then again, her Peeta certainly has plenty of charm)_

_(let us hope he never learns how to master it)_

“Fine, Haymitch, you may have your cursed marriage,” Enobaria spits and Haymitch bows deeply. This is a victory, he knows that, but triumph is still a long way off.  Madge will now have to win Cato and Enobaria to her cause and Haymitch will have to win England from his cousins.

_We have won the battle, now it is time for the war_ )

* * *

 

Madge stitches quietly beside her mother and replays the scene of Annie and Finnick’s reunion in her mind. _Think of how happy they were. Annie deserves that and more. If ever your conviction wavers, think of that._ The two of them are off somewhere together and even though her own heart is a ravaged mess, she can still find joy in that.

“Might I have a word, my lady? I have news.”

Madge looks up at Haymitch’s voice and sees him slipping into the room, a surly Marvel following at his heels.

“Of course, my lord,” her mother answers and sits up a little straighter. Madge feels her stomach tighten as Haymitch carefully shuts the door, Marvel stalking to the corner. He folds his arms and glares at each of them in turn as he leans back against the wall.

“So? What was so important you had to drag me here?” he demands and Haymitch looks directly at Madge. Their eyes meet and she sucks in a breath.

“Queen Enobaria has agreed to our terms. We will help Coriolanus regain his throne and in return, Cato will marry Madge.”

“What?!” Marvel shouts, outrage splashing over his face and Madge closes her eyes.

_We did it_

_I am going to be Queen of England_

_I am going to marry Cato_

There is bang as the door crashes against the wall and when she opens her eyes, Marvel is gone.

* * *

 

(Marvel storms into their bedroom and slams the door as hard as he can, the sound echoing down the castle’s corridors. He cannot remember ever being so furious and he wants to rip the room to shreds, wants to stomp back to his father and strangle him. He stands there breathing harshly and Glimmer stops her embroidery to look up at him.

“Whatever is the matter my beloved?” she asks in concern, her eyes wide and worried. Marvel growls and tugs at his hair.

“Haymitch!” he spits. “He is determined to ruin me!”

Glimmer is up in an instant, sweeping to his side and massaging his tense shoulders.

“What has that foul heap of rubbish done now?” she asks, pressing her body pleasantly against his.

“He-” and Marvel is so angry he can barely get the words out, “he has arranged for Madge to marry Cato! Haymitch has forsaken me, his own son, to put that stupid whore on the throne as Cato’s queen!”

He hadn’t meant to bellow it, but bellow it he does and Glimmer’s hands fall away from him immediately.

“Madge is going to be queen?” she demands and Marvel turns to glare at her in annoyance.

“I just said so, didn’t I?” he snaps and Glimmer recoils in horror.

“He cannot do this,” she breathes in outrage, “He cannot do this!”

“He already has,” Marvel retorts, his own rage climbing yet again.

“No! No, it’s not fair! I’m supposed to be queen!” Glimmer shouts, stomping her foot and great, big tears start to well in her eyes. A towering wave of frustration smashes into Marvel as Glimmer prepares to throw one of her famous tantrums and he exhales irritation through his nose. _How has she not outgrown this hideous habit?_

“Glimmer stop this right now. No wife of mine is going to fling herself about the floor like an ill-mannered child.”

Glimmer does not heed his command and instead shoots him a teary but defiant glare before dropping to the floor with a loud wail. Marvel clenches his fists.

“I’m barely your wife!” she bawls. “While I was lying half dead in my sickbed, you were off bedding every woman in France!”

Marvel roars, lifts Glimmer up by her shoulders and shakes her.

“How many times must I tell you? I am a great knight, noble, chivalrous and honourable. We valiant knights adhere to a strict code, one that includes being faithful to our wives! A man as gallant as I am would never debase himself with some strumpet, even if he is married to a shrieking idiot!”

This does nothing to quiet Glimmer, indeed she only wails louder and brings up her hands to claw at his face.

“What the fuck?!” he shouts, leaping away from her as she draws blood.

“You want Madge!” she sobs shrilly, “I know you like her best! I’m only your second choice!”

Marvel wipes the blood from his cheeks and sneers, the whole room shaded in red. He starts to laugh, low, cruel and he wishes Madge were here, wishes he could snap her into kindling.

“Want her? I hate that Lancastrian bitch, I could never want her,” he growls and Glimmer stops her incessant blubbering, her eyes watching him hungrily. “She is ugly and stupid and a whore. Her money, her titles, all that land, that’s all I wanted. I deserve all of it. But she would give it to Gale and now Cato...I am a better man than both of them. I did not love her, I could never desire her,” he says and Glimmer nods, her pale cheeks sparkling with tears. Fiery rage starts to cool, his mind starts to clear and revenge settles into his stomach, a desire he will see quenched, no matter the cost. He reaches out a hand and Glimmer takes it, slender fingers slotting just right with his.

“She will pay for betraying me, for stealing your throne. We will make her pay,” he says and Glimmer’s eager mouth finds his, stoking a very different kind of fire within him.

“I’m your first choice, you’d never choose her over me,” Glimmer hisses to his tongue and he nods, his fingers tearing at the infernal laces keeping her body captive.

“Never,” he swears and she sinks to her knees, tugging his hose down as she goes. He grins and yanks off her hennin, his fingers weaving through her silken hair. No, he could never want Madge, even as lucrative as she is. Glimmer is far from faultless, but as great and chivalrous a knight as he is, can forgive her womanly frailties. He cannot forgive Madge.

He won’t.

_Madge, Cato, Haymitch, Gale, they will all pay, we will make them-_

Glimmer’s warm mouth comes around him then and he forgets about revenge, abandons his rage)

(but only for now)

* * *

 

“Is it true?”

Madge looks up from her embroidery and Annie is before her, her eyes wide and terrified.

“Is what true?” Madge asks with a half hearted attempt at a smile. Annie grabs her hands.

“Are you really going to marry Cato?”

Madge nods and Annie’s eyes fill with tears, her fingers bruising as their grip tightens.

“Oh Madge…oh Madge,” she says and flings her arms around her.

(marriage is supposed to be a happy occasion)

(strange then, that this one has not made anyone happy)

(no one at all)

* * *

 

(“I am worried about Marvel,” Margaret tells him over a quiet supper and Haymitch sets down his spoon with a sigh.

“As am I,” he agrees and she sips her wine, shrewd eyes boring into him. He sighs again.

“He does not wish to speak with me. Perhaps in time he will understand,” he offers though he has very little hope. Marvel has ever been one to hold grudges, ever since he was a small boy.

“He might understand better if you explained yourself,” Margaret remarks and he frowns. He knows she is right, but it is almost too great a pain to bear when he sees the loathing in Marvel’s gaze. Haymitch is no stranger to being hated, but it something else entirely to see that hate on the face of one he loves more dearly than anything else.

_How I have failed him_

“Marvel was fully complicit in your plans; indeed he was the one pushing you forward. He bears as much guilt as you do in what’s happened. I will not deny it is a tragedy and I ache for both of them, but we cannot allow this rift to widen. Marvel must be made to see reason,” Margaret says and Haymitch wishes he could share her conviction. Marvel has lost both a child and a throne, he will never forgive that. But still, whatever Marvel’s faults, Haymitch misses him and he knows too that they need him on their side.

“I will try,” he finally says and Margaret smiles.

“Good. He is your son Haymitch and he is hurting, but he will come around.”)

* * *

 

Annie slips into Madge’s bed that night and neither one of them says a word, but as Annie holds her, the daunting task of wooing Cato does not feel quite so insurmountable.

And in the morning when her mother hugs her, kisses her brow and whispers, “you are so brave my Madge, so brave,” Madge feels even stronger still.

It will not be easy, she knows that, but with Annie and her mother beside her, nothing she has to do seems quite as frightening or impossible as it did before.

* * *

 

(“Haymitch has gone to King Louis’ court,” Katniss tells him over supper and Gale feels so ill he has to push away his plate.

“He wouldn’t,” he says because he is not an idiot. If Haymitch has gone to Louis, that means he-

“No. He wouldn’t,” Gale repeats and Katniss doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to, her sad eyes and mournful silence are enough. Haymitch has gone to Louis and that means he is going to Enobaria. When the Lancastrians make their inevitable return, Haymitch will fight beside them)

(Gale had thought nothing could feel worse than Haymitch betraying them)

(he was wrong)

* * *

 

Madge feels somewhat claustrophobic inside Louis’ castle, so many eyes fastened on her as she walks the halls, their whispers chasing her down every corridor. Everyone, it seems, wants to catch a glimpse of the soon to be Princess of Wales and she can’t go anywhere without colliding with a swarm of ladies or pack of lords eager to pass judgment. They stare at her like a horse at market, run critical eyes all over her and then murmur snide comments behind their hands, all of them finding her wanting in some regard. They are only so bold because Enobaria allows them to be, her own opinion of Madge made clearer everyday. She does not invite her soon to be daughter-in-law to dine with her, nor to attend her in her solar. She spares not a moment of her time for Madge and when they do encounter each other, she is both rude and dismissive. Egged on by this malicious behaviour, the nobles shun Madge too, their laughter cruel and their gazes sharp.

Madge forces herself not to care.

The members of Enobaria’s court are sheep, pure and simple, so she need not worry about them or what they think. She must concentrate only on winning the royal family, for once she has them, everyone else will fall into line.

(hopefully)

Cato is the only one who seems hell bent on avoiding her, for even Enobaria makes the occasional appearance to slap a thinly veiled insult upon her, and of course, he’s the one Madge most wants to impress. It is beyond frustrating but no matter where she searches for him; he is never anywhere to be found.

_Where is he?_

“Are you lost?”

Madge turns and sighs in relief at seeing Annie, a bit of the tension cramping her muscles draining away.

“No, but I think my soon to be betrothed is,” she says sourly and Annie winces in sympathy. She reaches forward and squeezes Madge’s hand.

“Is that not better though? I mean, Prince Cato is…” she trails off and looks around the hallway before leaning in close. “He’s not exactly pleasant, is he?”

Madge snorts.

“No, he isn’t. I still need him to like me though and the sooner the better.”

As soon as the words are out she realizes her mistake and flinches. Annie gasps.

“Oh Madge, you’re playing the same game as with Gale, aren’t you?” she accuses and Madge tries and fails to ignore her disapproval.

“I have to Annie, alright? I have to.”

“Do you? Why do you _have_ to seduce him?” Annie demands and Madge clenches her fists.

“You think I want this? You think I want to marry Cato?” she asks and all those tears she’d sworn she wouldn’t cry start to burn against her eyes. “I know he’s a monster. I _hate_ him. But I don’t have any other choice. To keep Gale safe, my family and myself, I _need_ the royal family on our side. I don’t want this, this is the last thing I want, but I have to.”

 “Oh Madge,” Annie says softly, sadly and then her arms are around her. Madge leans gratefully into her embrace.

“I don’t know what else to do. No man would ever let me have a say in politics and I cannot ride to war. This is my only chance to keep everyone safe. I have to Annie,” she whispers and Annie nods, stroking her hair.

“I know.”

( _but oh, how I wish neither of us did_ )

* * *

 

Madge blots at the last of her tears and drags up a smile.

“Speaking of betrotheds, where’s Finnick? I’d have thought you’d be spending every day with him.”

Annie squeezes her hand and sighs.

“I’d like nothing more, but there are all these meetings to plan for the invasion and Finnick has no choice but to be a part of them.”

Madge nods and feels her heart hardening.

_How long will it take to plan, I wonder? How soon will we be going to war with Gale?_

“At least it will all be over soon. We’ll be home and the war will be finished,” Annie says with a tremulous smile and Madge does her best to smile back.

_Will it though?_

_Will it ever be over?_

* * *

 

(Marvel will never forgive Haymitch, but he knows too that he must at least pretend he has. He cannot afford to give anyone reason to doubt him, not if his plan is to work. He will have his revenge, but first he must make nice, must allow no one room to suspect him or his loyalty.

_You will regret crossing me, you all will,_ he thinks and allows his father to corner him after one of the invasion meetings. He crosses his arms, glares death at his father and knows he must play this just right. He cannot forgive too quickly, but nor can he remain at his father’s throat. It is time for a most convincing lie.

“Marvel, might I have a word?” Haymitch asks, wringing his cap in his hands. Marvel exhales angrily and rolls his eyes.

“If you must.”

Haymitch swallows.

“I am so very sorry Marvel, for all the pain I have caused. I never wanted any of this.”

He is earnest, wretched and Marvel scoffs.

“Oh well, that’s good to know,” he says, filling his voice with scorn. Haymitch flinches and Marvel would be lying if he said he did not feel a great deal of satisfaction at the sight. His father gathers himself and tries again.

“I cannot change what happened and I will regret it until the end of my days. I find our new course of action as distasteful as you do, but we have little other choice. I must make up for what I have done. I will see us returned to England and to favour. I understand if you cannot forgive me, for I do not think I will ever forgive myself. But please Marvel, my son, do not turn against us. We need you and I…I love you.”

Haymitch is teary eyed in a way Marvel has rarely seen and his voice is both pleading and heartbroken. It does nothing to soften Marvel’s rage. Still, he knows what is required of him, so he turns his face away as if overcome by emotion.

“I know…I know you did not want this. And I-I shall never be happy about helping the Lancastrians regain the throne but I understand why we must. You needn’t worry about me, I could never betray our family. No matter how angry I am, and I am, I could never truly turn on you.”

He allows his voice to break in just the right way and has to hide a smile as Haymitch reaches for him. He does not return the embrace, that would be too much, but he does drive one final nail into the coffin.

“And I take comfort in knowing my little Helen is with Mother now. She will be well loved with her.”

Haymitch gasps, a sad, pathetic sound and Marvel relishes his triumph. He had thought long and hard on how he was going to pull this off and he cannot help feeling proud of his stroke of genius. His father is a fool, but a predictable one. If there is one thing guaranteed to make him so guilty he would never doubt Marvel again, it will be the thought of his dead granddaughter named after the wife he still so dearly misses.

_Oh Haymitch, Haymitch, Haymitch. They used to call you Queenmaker._

_Look how far you’ve fallen_ )

* * *

 

The garden at Louis’ castle is not quite as lovely as Windsor’s, but it is the only place in France where Madge feels almost content. Amongst the hedges and sweet smelling flowers she feels safe from prying eyes, no hushed voices buzzing in her ears. She can breathe out here and so every free moment she has is spent wandering the perfumed paths, her heart calmed by the soft gurgle of fountains and twittering of birds.

(and it may be the memories too that draw her here)

(Gale handing her Posy’s sweet little get well bouquet)

(Gale taking her for a walk)

(little Posy laughing amongst the blossoms)

(She and Gale talking after that very first kiss)

(the proposal of her dreams)

Madge sighs and takes a break from strolling to sit on a bench surrounded by fragrant lilies. She inhales deeply and manages a real smile for the first time in much too long. _Who needs to woo Cato? Perhaps I’ll just stay here until the wedding._

“Lady Madge, I hope I am not intruding.”

Madge turns in surprise and feels her eyes widen at the sight of Finnick Odair. He bows before her, cap clutched in his hands and Madge feels her stomach tighten. She has no idea why Finnick would want to search her out like this, but experience has taught her to be jaded.

(after all, not all her memories of gardens are sweet)

(there is Bristel riding into Bedford’s garden with horrible news of approaching Yorkists)

(Marvel dragging her around Warwick’s just after her mother’s wedding, his voice loud and hands possessive)

(Marvel again, this time with a whispered threat of marriage and her blood running cold in her veins)

“Oh no, Lord Richmond,” she says with a practiced smile, “not at all.”

He nods and straightens up, his face serious and his gaze intense. Madge lowers her eyes so as not to appear bold and settles back into court-Madge. She should’ve known there would be no haven for her here.

“I was hoping for a word with you,” he says and again she feels that knot in her gut clench.

“Of course,” she says and already her mind is running through every possibility. _What are you up to? Are you here on your aunt’s behalf? On Cato’s? Or perhaps you have some scheme of your own?_

He nods, runs a nervous tongue over his bottom lip and then kneels before her, her mask slipping before she can stop it. _This is very bold a move from a man I hardly know_ , she thinks and her mouth nearly drops open when he reaches for her hand and slides it between both of his. His skin is warm and softer than Gale’s, but she can feel the same calluses from handling a sword and for a moment her vision starts to blur. _Stop. Stop right now_. She focuses back on Finnick and he looks deep into her eyes, fear jolting in her blood. _What is he doing?_

“Forgive me Madge, but I…I wish to thank you.”

“Thank me?” she asks, cheeks hot and heart pounding. He is being overly familiar, addressing her without title, and _what does this mean?_

“Yes. Annie has told me all about her time in England since my exile and…and I cannot tell you how worried I was for her, how terrified. After I heard of Hedingham’s fall, I thought I would go mad if I could not go to her, if I couldn’t find out if she was alright. To know now that she had a friend like you, to know what comfort you gave her in this dreadful time…there are no words to express my gratitude. Thank you, Madge, thank you so much.”

He bows over her hand and Madge feels her eyes go wide.

“Oh no no no, you needn’t thank me. Annie has been as much a comfort to me as I have been to her.”

He looks up and smiles and for a moment it is like looking into the sun.

“I do not doubt it. Annie has ever been a ray of light.”

Madge feels herself softening and every worry about his intentions drips away at the look on his face. His smile is wide and easy, his eyes bright and she does not think he could ever look more handsome than he does right now.

“She is that,” Madge agrees and squeezes his hand. She frowns. “But where is she? I would not think the two of you would be parted if you could help it.”

He nods.

“If it were up to me I would not part with her for the world, but her father wanted a moment alone with her. I thought I would take this time to seek you out.”

Madge bites her lip and it is strange looking at this beautiful boy. On the one hand she is overjoyed that Annie has found him again but on the other she feels almost resentful that he will be snatching up so much of her friend’s time. She hates the thought as soon as she has it and _how wicked of me, how selfish_.

“I want you to know that I have no intention of getting between the two of you. I know I am not the only one with a claim on Annie’s heart and I do hope you are not alone out here because you think we do not want to see you. Indeed, I hope you will spend more time with us.”

He is very earnest, his hands warm around hers and she stares at him in shock.

“Oh no,” she says, waving away his words, “I would never want to intrude.”

He laughs.

“It would not be an intrusion. You are Annie’s dearest friend and I hope you will be my friend too,” he says, still with that lovely smile on his face and Madge’s feels her heart do something funny.

“Really?”

He nods.

“Yes. We are cousins you know, well, first cousins once removed. And we shall be cousins again when you marry Cato. More importantly, hearing of you from Annie has convinced me that you are just the sort of person I’d love to be friends with.”

The soft look on his face and the sincerity in his voice causes tears to well and Madge looks down in embarrassment. _They are perfectly suited these two, they are both much, much too lovely._

“I would like that very much,” she admits and how odd that at this lowest point of her life, she has more friends than she ever has before.

“Wonderful. Now,” he says, standing up and offering her his arm, “even though neither Annie nor her father will ever admit it, after so long alone together they will definitely be looking for an escape. Shall we give them one?”

Madge smiles and takes the offered arm.

“Let’s.”

* * *

 

As a humid, scorching August rolls over France, Madge decides it’s time to force a meeting with Cato.

(she has no idea where he is of course, but she does know how to find him)

“I am going to go meet Annie,” she says to her mother as they finish their dinner and hopes she cannot see the lie. Margaret nods, her wan face turned to the window, and Madge stands, brushing off the last dust of crumbs from her dress. She moves through the halls at a loping pace, ever conscious of looking entirely normal and not at all suspicious. Most people are still eating it seems, so Madge encounters only a handful of servants on her way and she is glad, for they will ask no questions nor speculate with lords and ladies as to her business. She stops just beyond the entrance to Enobaria’s chambers and tucks herself into a corner, her eyes fixed on the door while the rest of her remains out of sight.

No one passes by her hiding spot (thankfully) and shortly after beginning her vigil, she is rewarded, for out comes Clove Clifford. If anyone knows where to find Cato, it’ll be her (not that Madge has any intention of actually asking her his location). Clove tosses her plait of ink black hair over her shoulder and sets off down the hall, Madge hastening to follow. Of course, discretion is key, so Madge keeps a healthy distance between them, takes very light steps and hugs the walls, ready at any moment to dart out of sight. Not that it matters, for Clove never once looks back, her strides sure, her posture perfect and her head held high.

(Madge cannot help but admire her confidence)

Clove finally comes to a halt and turns into a doorway, a smirk gracing her mouth. Madge can practically feel the anticipation crackling through her and quickens her steps, but Clove does not bother to shut the door, leaving herself, Cato, and their clandestine love affair exposed to one and all. Madge feels herself bristle, her hands and toes curling in anger at this obvious slight. Everyone knows of Madge’s coming engagement to Cato and his shameless carousing is both demeaning and insulting. It is Madge that will be laughed at, rather than Cato, Madge who will be looked down on and the injustice rankles far more that she would have imagined.

_Gale would never have treated me thus_ , she thinks furiously, _nor even would Marvel! Even with his many, many faults, he has remained a faithful husband to Glimmer_. It is that fact, more than any other, that drives a knife into her chest, that boils the blood in her veins. She does not even care that he is unfaithful, for she never expected any different. No, it is his complete and utter lack of discretion that turns her red with rage. _He is shouting to the world just how little he thinks of me, just how little respect I am due._

But then, before her anger boils over and she does something rash, a thought occurs to her. _Gale would not have behaved like this and nor would Marvel. Gale is a good man with a good heart and Marvel is ambitious and arrogant. I could woo Gale with love, affection and common ground, Marvel with wealth and flattery. Cato is a different creature entirely. And he has Clove._

_Cato is not soft, never sweet and he will see my kindness as a weakness. I must show him I am strong, undaunted and unable to be pushed around. Love and affection may wear him down later, but first I must prove to him that I am someone to be reckoned with. With parents like Enobaria and Coriolanus, that is what he has been taught to respect. I will show him my mettle, break Clove’s hold on him and then, then I will be soft and loving, a haven from a cruel father and demanding mother._

Madge takes a breath and smothers her fury. This is a delicate operation, one she has to play just right.

(and if there is something oily beneath her skin, something guilty and dismayed and unhappy at what she’s doing, Madge ignores it)

_Now_

Madge barges into the room with little grace, her eyes burning as they sweep over Cato and Clove. Clove is sitting on a table, her hands in Cato’s hair as he stands between her legs, his mouth fastened to her neck. Madge narrows her eyes.

“Oh no,” she says loudly and more than a little scathingly, “I seem to have interrupted something.”

Clove’s eyes snap open and she stares open mouthed at Madge, fury and shock mingling in her gaze. Cato jerks around and sees her, his cheeks instantly flushing.

“What are you doing here?” he demands and Madge smiles coldly.

“I was looking for you, my prince. I had hoped we might become better acquainted,” she replies, acid dripping off her tongue. His eyes pop, his face flushes and Clove digs her nails into his shoulders, livid eyes fastened on Madge.

“I want nothing to do with you,” he snaps, his fists shaking and Madge feels her cheek throb. Still, she cannot back down. _It is time to fight fire with fire._

“How unfortunate, seeing as we’ll soon be married,” she says, calm and cool and unaffected on the outside. Cato spits at her feet.

“I’ll never marry you,” he swears and Clove smirks. Madge offers him a pitying smile.

“You don’t have a choice. Your mother has already agreed. We will be married Cato, you’d best get used to the idea.”

She is being very bold, especially in talking this way to a prince, and Cato lunges for her with a snarl. She steps to the side just in time and he snags only her sleeve, tearing the fabric as she pulls away. Fear flinches inside her but she will not let it show, cannot be anything but steel and ice. _Think of Mother, Annie, Gale, the Hawthornes, Katniss. I must be as cruel and as cutting as Cato if I want to save them._

“I will be your king!” Cato bellows. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

“If you are to be a king then act like it,” Madge retorts, makes sure every inch of her appears unimpressed, and Cato’s eyes start to bulge, veins standing out beneath his red skin. She braces herself for the fury to come. _Whatever he does, do not flinch. Courage, courage for those I love._

“What big talk from such a little girl,” Clove says nastily and slides off the table. Cato watches her as she walks towards Madge, his breathing ragged and his hands clenched so tight his knuckles pop out white against the rest of his flesh.

“Let me give you a little advice,” Clove says, her eyes bright and glowing, “give up. You can’t win this fight, not against me.”

Madge returns Clove’s cutting smile and knows she must best her here if she is to have any chance at dislodging her from Cato’s side.

“I have no interest in fighting you Clove, all I want is for my soon to be husband to show me the respect I am due,” she says and Clove’s face turns cruel.

“Back off you little whore, he’s mine.”

Madge’s eyebrows go up as Clove leans towards her, their noses nearly touching.

“Whore? I can’t see how wanting my future husband to be a bit more discreet with his passions makes me a whore. Let me give _you_ some advice, Clove. I’m the one you don’t want to cross.”

Shock, pure and clean, washes over both Cato and Clove’s faces. There is a flare of triumph in Madge’s stomach, but it is the bitter kind, its taste burning on her tongue. Clove clenches her fists, her chest starts to heave and Madge readies herself for the onslaught to come.

“You think you’re so high and mighty, I’ll show you,” Clove growls, eyes a bit manic, and shoves Madge back against the wall. Cato watches with a wild sort of excitement and Madge hardens her heart, for there is no room for kindness now.

“Go ahead,” she says, “It won’t change anything. I’m still going to marry Cato. The Queen will not change her mind, she cannot. She needs my step-father’s help as well as my inheritance and that only comes if we marry. Beat me black and blue Clove, but you’ll still be the one who loses in the end.”

Clove raises her hand as if to strike but then freezes, her eyes flashing.

“You…you…foul little bitch. You stay away from Cato. I promise you now if you don’t I’ll make you regret it.”

Clove’s voice shakes with the force of her threat but Madge meets her eyes levelly.

“I’d be careful about making such threats. One day we will free King Coriolanus and whose side do you think he will take? I am his blood Clove, you aren’t. Maybe you should remember that.”

Clove’s eyes go wide and she does strike then, slamming Madge’s head so hard against the wall she sees stars. She sinks to the ground and she is so disoriented she doesn’t notice them leaving, though she does feel the spike of pain from Cato kicking her as he passes.

It doesn’t matter. Clove’s reaction has made one thing very clear.

She is the frightened one now.

_I am wicked and cruel._

_But I am winning._

* * *

 

(Cato and Clove stride out and pretend they’ve won, but they both know the truth)

(Madge is the victor here)

(and no matter how hard they fight, they’ve already lost the war)

* * *

 

Madge doesn’t fool herself into believing that Cato and Clove have ceased their affair, but she never expected them to. They keep things secret now though and that is the triumph she wanted, the one she bled for.

_Reckless, foolish, asinine_ , Annie had called her as she tended to her wounds and maybe she was. Still, she had achieved her goal and even though she is not yet in Cato’s good graces, he has learned her mettle. She will not be insulted, will not be pushed around and soon, soon she’ll have Cato and she won’t ever have to be afraid again.

* * *

 

“I’ve always wondered if maybe they loved each other, after all, they’ve been together for so long,” Annie says softly and Madge can see the empathy in her eyes at the thought of Cato and Clove being forced apart if they do truly love each other. Madge thinks the old her would have cared too, would have felt wretched for being the one to pull them part but she cannot care about that, not now.

_Oh Annie, Annie, you are soft and sweet and kinder than you ought to be and what am I? Burning, angry grudges with nothing inside but ashes and lies_

* * *

 

(and if Madge cries herself to sleep that night, it doesn’t matter, for there is no one there to hear it)

* * *

 

(Peeta knows he is at least somewhat to blame for the turmoil in England. The fact that he is a foreigner has set the people’s teeth on edge and made every grievance they have with Katniss so much harsher. She never says it of course, never once blames him, but she doesn’t need to. Their marriage was supposed to help her, but it has done nothing but cost her.

War threatens with France, Haymitch and Marvel have betrayed her and now riots spark across the country, shattering the peace she’d fought so long and hard for. He might not have brought the kingdom crumbling down alone, but he is certainly one of the cracks causing its collapse.

_Oh Katniss, oh Katniss, I’m so sorry._

As the people demand he be sent back to Burgundy and the shadows in her eyes grow darker, he starts to think _maybe I should go back_ )

* * *

 

The smoky, humid August weather continues to plague France and it is Annie who suggests they go for a walk by the coast, insisting that the sea air will be a welcome respite from the blistering heat of the castle. She is right.

The salty breeze wafting from the water is a blessing and Madge sighs happily from her spot in the grass beside Annie. She hugs her knees and ignores the shimmering Channel just ahead, hideous memories trying so desperately to rise up like specters from a grave. _Will you never stop haunting me? Am I to live all my days in your shadow?_

“I could almost be home at Dunstanburgh,” Annie says wistfully and Madge furrows her brow. Finnick grabs Annie’s hand, his eyes set on the horizon.

“God willing, we’ll be back there soon,” he says and Madge bites her lip at the longing in his voice. She wants to ask about Dunstanburgh, is it one of the Earl of Oxford’s castles? One of Finnick’s? but the gentle smile on Annie’s face as she turns to look at Finnick makes her bite her tongue. It doesn’t matter, not now, this moment too fragile to break. Finnick smiles back at Annie and Madge can feel the hope reflected on their faces, feels herself wishing with all her might that this is one dream that will come true.

Annie bounces up with a beam and tugs on Finnick’s hand.

“Come on, let’s get a closer look,” she says and Madge cannot help but marvel at this new Annie. Ever since her reunion with Finnick she has been lighter, brighter and far more alive, all her sorrows softened. Madge cannot help but love him for it.

Finnick laughs and gets up, his eyes so tender Madge has to look away. She moves them instead to the escort they’d been forced to bring along, a small clump of men with swords that Finnick had instructed to stand a little ways off so they might have some privacy. Each one wears a silver wyvern badge upon his surcoat, Finnick’s badge as it turns out, and _of course it is_ , she thinks, _it is just like the one Annie is always stitching._ She frowns though as she notices something clutched in its teeth, a plant of some sort. _What is it?_ She turns to ask but Finnick is gone, Annie having pulled him down to the water’s edge. Madge hurries to catch up and Annie inhales deeply, a soft, peaceful expression washing over her face. Madge smiles and comes up beside Finnick, his own lovely smile turned to Annie.

“So what is that, in your wyvern’s mouth?” Madge asks him as Annie bends down and dips her hands into the gentle waves.

“Heliotrope,” he answers and drags his eyes from Annie to Madge. A mistake, as it turns out. Madge is just about to ask him the meaning of the heliotrope when Annie lifts her hands, scooping up a great splash of water to throw at Finnick. Madge’s eyes go perfectly round as the water hits him and he turns, his hose and doublet dripping.

“Annie Cresta!” he starts to reprimand but his grin is so wide it ruins the effect. Annie laughs.

“Oh no, poor Lord Finnick fell in,” she teases, her expression mischievous in a way Madge never would have imagined. Finnick laughs too and reaches for her, Annie just managing to dance out of reach.

“Such a pity,” she continues and he lunges again.

“Oh yes, and even more a pity that his lady love fell with him,” he says and this time he does grab her, lifting her up and carrying her into the sea. He walks straight in and Annie shrieks with laughter as the water swirls up to her waist, Madge watching them in utter bewilderment. Finnick lifts Annie up as high as he can then and _throws_ her, Madge clapping her hands to her mouth. Annie lands with a great splash amid peals of laughter and bobs up almost immediately after, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with mirth. Finnick pushes through the water towards her and he is soon drenched, both their lovely clothes ruined but neither seems to mind, splashing and flopping about like a pair of fish people. They share a grin and then Finnick reaches down and undoes his belt, Annie untying her girdle.

“Here, catch!” Annie calls and throws it at the shore, Finnick following suit. Madge is too baffled to move and she just watches both belts land a few feet short and sink below the water. Annie then hikes up her sopping skirts and lifts one leg all the way up, offering her booted foot to Finnick.

“Help?” she asks with sparkling eyes and he laughs, quickly unlacing it and then doing the same to the other. He tosses them over at the shore and then tips onto his back so Annie can tug off his boots as well. They both sail towards shore as well and Madge is sure she must be dreaming as she watches Annie help Finnick out of his doublet, even more so when Finnick undoes the ties of Annie’s houppelande and kirtle. Finnick gathers their sodden garments in his arms and struggles towards the shore, Annie swimming deeper in nothing but her chemise.

_Have they gon_ e _mad?_

“Come in, it feels amazing!” Annie calls to her with a wave and Madge would be lying if she said there was not a tug in her to do just that. She is hot and sticky, flushed and boiling, and a dip in the sea sounds like magic. Except…she is supposed to be making a good impression on the Lancastrians and there is little she can think of that would be more scandalous than swimming barely dressed with a boy who is not even her husband. As if to prove her point, Finnick drops their clothes on the shore and then pulls off his damp shirt and hose, Madge’s face burning suddenly red. He is standing there in nothing but wet breeches and Madge has never seen a man in such a state of undress before, indeed, she never expected to see anyone but her husband in such a way.

(it doesn’t help that Finnick’s bare torso is certainly a sight to behold)

“Do you not want to?” he asks and Madge tears her eyes from the ground and focuses on his face.

“It would be very improper,” she mumbles and he stares in her eyes for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Suddenly he grins.

“It would be,” he agrees, his smile turning wicked. “But a proper lady could not be blamed for being set upon by brigands and forced into the water. And you know, I hear this particular stretch of coast is rather prone to brigands.”

As foolish as it is, Madge grins back.

“I’m no match for brigands,” she says and then laughs in shock as Finnick swoops her up into his arms. She clutches his neck and then he wades into the sea again, the fresh breeze teasing her hair. She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply and before she knows what’s happening, Finnick drops her. She plunges in with a shriek and flails back up, the water coming up to her waist. She splutters and pushes sopping hair from her face and he is laughing, Annie joining in and though Madge means to be outraged, she is laughing too.

Still, she cannot let him get away with this without a little revenge.

She plunges her arms into the sea and splashes him with as much water as she can, her conjured wave crashing against his chest and face. Annie lets out a cheer and Finnick coughs, his face slack with surprise. He recovers quickly, a grin flashing across his face, and suddenly he is grabbing for her, his lack of heavy clothes making him much more maneuverable than she.

“Have you no chivalry, sir? No great knight would ever attack a lady and certainly not one so unfairly encumbered!” she calls over her shoulder as she tries to flee, laughter caught in every word.

“Have no fear my lady, I’ll save you!” Annie shouts and dives at Finnick. He catches her and falls back into the water, both of them giggling like children with their arms tight around each other. Madge hurriedly unties her girdle and fumbles with her boot laces, already feeling freer. Her toes scrunch up in the mud below her feet and she pushes her way over to Finnick and Annie with her hands held high in surrender.

“I should like to request a temporary truce.”

“A truce?” Finnick asks as he stands back up, his arm still snug around Annie’s waist. “And why should I agree to such a thing?”

“Because I cannot get out of this dress alone and it wouldn’t be very sporting to attack me while I’m at so obvious a disadvantage.”

Annie giggles and Finnick taps his chin with a smile.

“Well alright, as I am an honorable sort, I shall allow it.”

Annie shoves him playfully before coming over to help and Madge sticks out her tongue. Annie peels off her wet layers and Madge should be mortified to be with a boy in nothing but her chemise, but strangely, it doesn’t seem to matter. Finnick looks at her the same as he did when she was fully dressed, the sun is bright overhead, the water feels wonderful and she has not laughed so hard in years. In this moment propriety does not matter, war and loyalty and lost love do not matter.

She is young, she is with her friends, and finally, after such a long time, she is _happy_.

* * *

 

Later, when they lie down in the grass to dry, Finnick whispers to her ear.

“I want you to promise me something. Should Cato prove ungallant, and I am sure he will, please tell me.”

She turns her head to look at him and blinks.

“Why? He is a prince; there will naught that you can do about it.”

Finnick smiles wryly, his eyes suddenly sad.

“I do not fear Cato. After so long being on his bad side, I am well used to his temper as well as his father’s punishments. I remember how much scorn he heaped on the Scottish Princess Margaret when he was meant to wed her and it will be worse with you, for you are no king’s daughter. He will be cruel.”

Madge thinks suddenly of all those faded scars on Finnick’s back, ones she had written off as battle wounds and her heart shudders. She thinks too of violent Cato and the parting gift he’d given her two years ago. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a champion? Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to fight all her battles alone?

It would, but it is much too late for that.

When she was young and so enamored of fanciful tales of gallant heroes and swooning ladies, it would have been easy to promise Finnick what he wants. But she is older now and for better or for worse, she will not let someone else bleed for her war. She smiles at him and looks back up at the clouds.

“Do you know, I think that one looks like a dog?”

“Really? I would say cat,” Annie offers and Finnick sighs.

* * *

 

(That night when Finnick has snuck into Annie’s room, he wraps her in his arms and tells her about Madge and the promise she wouldn’t make. Annie squeezes his middle and places a kiss against the fabric over his heart.

“Of course she wouldn’t, as you would not had your positions been reversed.”

Finnick frowns even as he knows she’s right.

“I think you would both rather be crushed than allow anyone else to help you carry any weight. Fools, the both of you. But then, perhaps I am the most foolish,” she says, smiling as she cups his face in her hands, “for loving you both so much.”

Finnick grins despite himself, still just as giddy hearing those words as he had been the first time. He leans down and kisses her, his blood humming for her.

“I am worried,” he whispers to Annie’s lips, “Cato will not be kind.”

Annie nods sadly.

“I know, I sometimes do not think he is capable of such a thing.” She pauses for a moment and there is a hitch in her voice when she begins again. “Did you know this was her idea? She saw it as the best way to keep her family safe and you know what? I think she is right and I hate it. I _hate_ it. And I hate this war and what it is doing to us. Why have they done this? Why have our parents cursed us to live like this?”

She buries her face in his doublet, tears dripping down her cheeks, and Finnick tightens his hold on her, pressing kisses to her head. He cannot answer her questions, nor can he make this right. He would do anything to stop Annie from crying but there is nothing he can do. He cannot save Madge from Cato, he cannot stop this war and he cannot make Annie happy, even though that is the only thing he has ever wanted to do.

_I am useless, helpless. Forgive me Annie)_

(and as Finnick holds her, all Annie can think is _forgive me Finnick, forgive me Madge... Forgive me for not being able to help you, to fight beside you_ )

* * *

 

Madge tells herself, every chance she gets, that she has let go of Gale, that he is nothing now but a memory. She must look to the future and during daylight hours when she is surrounded by enemies in Enobaria’s cutthroat court, she does. She focuses not on what she has lost but on what she must gain to survive and Gale is but a dull throb in the back of her mind, another wound to push her forward. He is like Henry, her father, her life of before and it is a pain she is long used to bearing.

It is only at night that despair catches up with her.

In the dark there is nothing but loneliness and silence to fill the hours and soon he is sweeping over her like a wave, drowning her in the ache of missing him, in the sorrow of loving him. She looks at the moon outside her window, at the stars shining ever on and wonders if he is watching those same stars, if he is missing her with the same virulence as she misses him.

Some nights, the worst nights, she whispers to his locket or runs her thumb over the words carved into his brooch or flips through his heraldry book. For those brief, brief moments, she can almost imagine there not standing on either side of this war, that there is still a chance they might find their way back to each other.

A fool’s hope maybe, but it is better than nothing.

Tonight it is the book she tries to find solace in and she leafs through each beautifully illuminated page, her heart sagging in her chest. Without really thinking she comes to a stop on the page for heliotrope and she brushes her fingers over the intricate painting, her eyes suddenly blurring with tears. She wipes at them hastily with her sleeve and thinks of Finnick’s wyvern badge and the sprig of heliotrope clutched in its mouth. The wyvern itself is identical to the one Annie’s always stitching, bar that heliotrope. Madge cannot imagine Annie forgetting such a detail and the only explanation she can find is that Finnick must have added it during his time in exile.

_But why? What does it mean?_

Her eyes drift down to the definition and she gasps softly, those tears returning with ferocity.

**Heliotrope: Eternal love and devotion**

Teardrops splotch upon the pages and _he added it for Annie as she crowned her dolphin with rosemary for him._

Madge looks back out the window at the moon, the very same silver as Gale’s eyes and _I wonder Gale will you weave me into your badge? Could our love survive a separation of years and so many miles?_

(and even as her heart shouts _yes!_ the wicked voice in her mind whispers _perhaps it would be best if it could not_ )

* * *

 

(If you ask Glimmer, Countess of Northumberland, if, after everything that has happened, she still loves her husband, she’ll say _yes, of course I do. I love him just as much as I always have, for all the same reasons I always have_. And she won’t say this just because it’s what she’s meant to say, but because it’s true.

_What are those reasons?_ you might ask and she will say _because he is powerful and rich and will make me powerful and rich in turn_.

_Is that all?_ you’ll ask and _of course_ , she’ll say, _for what other reason could there be to love a husband?_ )

* * *

 

Every day that passes brings the invasion ever closer and soon, Madge is certain, the Lancastrian leaders will set a date for the taking of England. They spend hours every day sequestered together, planning and plotting out every detail, and each report from Finnick makes it clear that the time for action is nearing.

Soon, Lancaster will sail for England, soon war will bathe its shores once more.

(and Madge cannot help but wonder if finally, finally, she has chosen the winning side)

* * *

 

(but worse is the thought that once the war begins, Gale’s safety will be in Haymitch’s hands alone)

(if these years of turmoil have taught her anything, it is that relying on others is the most dangerous gamble of all)

* * *

 

The sky overhead is dark and morbid, the wind rising ominously as Madge sits in the garden and she knows a storm is coming. It has been a humid, muggy August so far and today is the culmination, the rupturing of the oppressive heat with a thunderstruck deluge. She should head inside before it starts but it is so peaceful here, so quiet, and she finds herself lingering a little longer.

_Soon, I’ll go inside soon_

She plucks a wilting rose and rolls the stem between her thumb and forefinger, careful not to prick herself on one of its thorns. She thinks she catches the sound of distant lovers’ giggles over the wind and perhaps this is where Cato and Clove have taken their trysts. It would be just be her luck to stumble across them now and ruin whatever progress she’d managed to make. Oh she knows Cato hates her, encouraged heartily by Clove, but at least he has learned not to cross her. If she interrupts them though, she is certain his temper will not survive intact. She must tread carefully with Cato if she is to woo him and right now, he needs time to cool down.

_I have made the first strike, now I will let him grow used to this new normal. He will try and break me, but I must stand firm. He will require a two pronged attack, strength and steel to win his interest and admiration, but sweet and flirtatious to stir his heart and loins. It may take longer than Gale, but in the end, I will-Ow!_

She winces and looks down to see blood welling from her thumb, the rose crushed in her palm. The wind pulls the petals away and she watches them as they fly, a smear of dark red against the blackening clouds.

_Still, for now, I will leave Cato alone. As much as I am able to at least._

For now she will focus on securing Enobaria instead. After all, it is Enobaria who will decide if this marriage happens or not, not Cato. Once they are married he will have to spend time with her and then, then she will work on wooing him. Even better, with Enobaria in her corner it will be much, much easier to separate Cato and Clove. Thunder rumbles above and Madge looks up at the sky, a sigh slipping past her lips. _Oh let me have just a moment more, just a few more moments…_

“Madge.”

She turns and sees her mother heading towards her just as the rain begins to fall, each drop like a cold needle sinking through her dress. There is a serious, somber look on her mother’s gaunt face and Madge feel her heart harden, can feel walls building themselves up.

“What is it?” she asks as her mother reaches her bench. Margaret places a cold hand on her daughter’s cheek.

“Haymitch has just informed me that a date has been set for the invasion. They leave at the end of September.”

Magde nods, her fingers aching to clutch Gale’s locket.

“Your betrothal ceremony will take place the day before they leave, at Haymitch’s insistence,” her mother continues and Madge takes a steadying breath. It is pouring now, nearly blinding her, and she nods again. Haymitch is being very clever, after all, with him away in England, Enobaria might invent any number of excuses to stop the betrothal from happening. Yes, he is very cunning indeed.

_The end of September, the beginning of Fall._

_Five Weeks._

_Five Weeks and then I will be bound to Cato forever._

_Five Weeks._

* * *

 

(Finnick cradles Annie’s face in his hands and kisses the tears from her cheeks, his own falling with abandon.

“I love you Annie, I love you so much. This parting will not be for long, I swear it. I will retake England and I will send for you and we will be married at Dunstanburgh just like you wanted.”

Annie nods, her hands tightening on his hips and Uncle Boggs knocks on the door, his voice heavy with apology.

“We must go, Finnick. The Queen will not be pleased to be kept waiting.”

Finnick kisses Annie desperately and hopes she knows she is the love and light of his life, hopes she knows that there is nothing he will not do to return to her arms where he belongs.

“I love you Finnick. You have my heart and all my courage, all my strength. I will send it to you every day,” she promises. He nods, his forehead against hers, and breathes her in, all his nerves calming.

“I know you will,” he whispers. “Thank you.”)

* * *

 

Madge pushes open Annie’s bedchamber door and finds her lying back on the bed, her cheeks wet as she stares up at the ceiling. The room is shadowed and gray, rain lashing angrily against the window and Madge clutches the door, her nails sinking into the wood.

_Finnick must have told her_

Madge walks over to the bed and lies down, her hand finding Annie’s.

“I’ll pray for Finnick,” she promises and Annie squeezes her fingers.

“And I will pray for you, Madge.”

* * *

 

(Prim knows she has been very fortunate when it comes to arranged marriages.

Her mother would have sent her far, far away to marry a man who could have been twice her age and of a foul temperament, but instead she has been blessed enough to remain close to home and family with a young, handsome, charming husband like Darius.

Yes, Prim is very lucky indeed.

Which is why she finds it so odd and disconcerting when Darius chooses not to ride out with Katniss to quash the newest batch of small scale uprisings flowering around the country. He has been steadfast in his loyalty to York, has been ever since he became Duke of Buckingham. So why is he suddenly so reluctant to fight for Katniss’ crown?

It takes her two weeks to pluck up the courage to ask, that unsettled feeling beneath her skin finally forcing the words out. Darius smiles his best, most heart melting smile at her question, but for once, Prim does not turn to butter beneath its glow.

“I want to stay here with you and the baby,” he says easily, placing a hand on the small bump just starting to push through her layers of skirt. She smiles and believes him, after all, ever since they’d first found out he hasn’t stopped talking about how excited he is, how overjoyed, how he cannot wait to meet their little boy.

(Prim would be happy with either a son or a daughter, but she does not bother to say so. She may only be fifteen, but she knows full well that most men would find such a sentiment ridiculous)

“And anyway, these uprisings are so small your sister doesn’t need my help. The Queen and Salisbury are more than capable of handling them,” he adds and she believes that too. And yet…that unhappy feeling persists, a nervousness she cannot explain lingering in her stomach.

_It’s just Haymitch’s betrayal; it still has me on edge. And I am worried too about having a baby and of bringing them into a world so ravaged by civil war. Worried for Katniss, for her crown…for her life._

_That’s all._

_That must be all_ )

* * *

 

(Prim loves her husband, but she loves her sister more.

She does not want to choose between them, hopes and hopes and hopes she is wrong to be uneasy, but if Darius is up to something, she has already chosen.

Prim stands with Katniss)

* * *

 

Time seems to race by, days slipping past faster than Madge can count.

She wants summer to last forever, but it can’t.

Soon it is September, then fall.

Soon, it is _time_.

* * *

 

(Gale sighs as he stares out the window, something tired and heavy weighing in his bones. He watches the sun rise from the sea and bleed its colours into the sky and cannot help but think of Madge.

_I’ve never watched the sun rise. I think I’d like to, someday_

_Maybe I’ll join you_

The memory stings and Gale shakes his head, but can’t quite dislodge it. As much as he might say otherwise, he doesn’t really want to forget her or to let her go. It is stupid, he knows that, but somewhere, buried very deep, he still has hope they’ll find their way back to each other.

_God, I’m an idiot_

_And what about you Madge? Are you alright?_

_Are you holding on just as tight?_

“Gale.”

He turns and Katniss is standing in his doorway, her eyes somber. He sighs again.

“Where is it this time?”

“Yorkshire.”

“Right.”

Uprisings have been flaring up all over England since Haymitch’s revolt and Gale has stamped out every single one. Kastniss rides out and Gale follows, just like he always has. These flare ups are small, not terribly threatening but Katniss never leaves them for someone else to handle and Gale could never stay behind. But maybe it’s a good thing, maybe he needs the distraction. He nods at Katniss and pushes Madge from his mind.

(at least for now)

As he steps past her into the hall, their eyes meet and he hates what he can read there. Her look is too sad, too filled with their last conversation.

_I’m sorry_

_Sorry for what? I made my choice a long time ago and I don’t regret it. I’m with you until the end, Katniss_

_I know. Still, I’m sorry about Madge_

_So am I_

Katniss blames herself for all of this, but of course she does. She isn’t faultless sure, but it’s his fault too. And Haymitch’s and Marvel’s and Coriolanus’ and so many others. They all let England down and now they have to pay the price.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing her arm, “let’s go remind them all how you won a kingdom.”

She doesn’t smile like he’d like her to, but then she hasn’t smiled since Haymitch betrayed them.

He’s starting to wonder if she ever will)

* * *

 

(“Going somewhere?”

Rory turns from the coffer he’s been packing to see Philippa standing in the doorway, her blue eyes bright with curiosity. He nods eagerly.

“Gale and Katniss are taking me with them to suppress the newest uprising in the north. Finally, I’ll have a chance to prove to them both that I’ve grown up, that I’m a man now.”

He deepens his voice somewhat and puffs out his chest but Philippa’s hands immediately jump to her mouth, smothering her giggles.

“Is fourteen considered a man now?” she asks from between her fingers, eyes dancing. Rory deflates and glares at her.

“Man enough,” he grumbles and returns to his packing. Philippa laughs again and steps into the room, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

“Go then,” she says and he twists his head around to look at her, “and prove to Gale you’re a man.”

“I will,” he promises, voice odd even to his own ears. She smiles and leans in very close.

“And then join him in revenge on Haymitch.”

Rory turns fully to face her, her hands squeezing his shoulders and he can feel a fire raging within him.

“I will. I cannot wait. I hate him Philippa, I hate him so much. I feel…I feel as if I’m… _burning_ ,” he admits, his voice taut with fury. Philippa moves her hands to his face, her fingers soft on his cheeks.

“Then burn Rory. And know I shall burn with you.”)

* * *

 

(he doesn’t really remember his wedding vows but he knows in this moment that had he the chance to write them himself, he would want them to sound just like that)

* * *

 

The night is cloudless, starless, moonless and yet not dark as Madge sits by the fountain in the courtyard, her fingers trailing though the cool water. The pale smudge of a girl reflected there is sad, her eyes dull with sorrow and Madge sighs, dreading tomorrow and the betrothal ceremony that comes with it.

_Oh Gale, oh Gale it should be us up there_

“You know I hate seeing you sad,” comes a soft voice and Madge looks up to her left and there he is, _Gale_ , tall and handsome and _here_. She gasps, her heart pounds in her ears, beats loudly in her chest, and _oh Gale, oh Gale, it’s really you_. She stands and he frowns, his eyes sweeping over the misery still etched into her expression.

“What has you so sad?” he asks and she swallows, burning tears gathering in her eyes.

“I’ll be betrothed to Cato tomorrow and when that happens...when that happens we’ll have lost any chance of ever being together.”

It hurts to say out loud, feels like a hot knife sliding through her skin and he nods, his beautiful beautiful eyes turning up to the midnight sky.

“You said you’d have me forever, do you still mean that?” he asks and she nods, her limbs shaking with the need to touch him.

 “Yes, yes, forever and ever and ever,” she promises and he smiles slowly, her favourite, achingly perfect Gale smile.

“Then we have nothing to fear,” he whispers and steps forward, his warm fingers wrapping around hers.

“I will never let you go Madge, not as long as you love me,” he vows, pulling her closer and tears blur her vision.

“Then you shall never let me go for I will never, ever stop loving you Gale.”

He smiles a little wider, brighter than every star there ever was and tilts her chin up, her skin tingling beneath his touch. She closes her eyes and _I love you_ he breathes against her lips, her heart glowing gold. His arms are strong around her, his name is carved into her bones and for a moment at least, she really does feel invincible.

And then she wakes up.

She is alone in bed with no Gale to hold her, wrapped not in his arms but blankets that cannot warm her. She closes her eyes and tries with all her might to conjure up that perfect dream, to sink back into it but with daylight comes the sharp sting of reality and she cannot go back to dreaming.

Today she will be betrothed to Cato.

It is not marriage, not yet, but she will be his officially, irrevocably, unless death or the Pope puts an end to it. This is what she set out to do, the victory she strove for and still, there is that small, wretched part of her that wishes she had lost.

* * *

 

(And somewhere in England, Gale looks out his window and thinks _we’ll be together again someday Madge, I swear_ )

* * *

 

A legion of maids comes to prepare her for the ceremony, Madge’ whole body cold and numb. She sits on a velvet stool as they twine red ribbons in her hair and coil blonde strands around a single ruby rose, the fragrant scent curdling her stomach. She stands and they lace her into a stiff brown kirtle, the fabric heavy and unwieldy. Over top goes a saffron houppelande that washes out her skin, little brown blossoms etched over it in dull thread. The entire ensemble is a gift from Queen Enobaria, one that leaves little doubt as to her feelings towards Madge and her coming marriage to Cato.

_If you think this will be enough o break me, you are wrong_

She is no great beauty as she stares in the mirror and as much agony as it brings; she forces herself to smile, to look pleased and excited. She needs Cato, she cannot afford for him to see her miserable today. She pinkens her lips and cheeks, dabs herself with rose water and even though she knows she should, she cannot bear to take off Gale’s locket. It rests against her heart and she takes courage from it, and from the rings she wears every day, from her grandmother, from her father, from Henry.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?”

Madge turns slowly to see her mother in the doorway, her skin sallow and her expression sombre. There is no point in pretending today is a joyous occasion and Madge nods, steeling her shivering heart and queasy stomach.

_Courage Madge, be brave_

Her mother nods back and takes Madge’s hand, her fingers bony as she squeezes. They move out into the hall arm in arm, steps sure and backs straight. The palace has not been done up in any great style but Madge ignores that along with every other insult Enobaria heaps upon them, focuses only on her act, her perfect charade to ensnare the Queen and Cato. When they are led into the great hall she looks nothing but a sweet, blushing maiden, both thrilled and shy at her coming betrothal. She peeks bashfully at Cato, ignores the daggers sent her way by Clove’s dark eyes, and smiles softly. Cato merely sneers, the silver coronet in his hair glinting in the sunlight from the windows. He stands with his mother, her hand on his shoulder and her expression filled with distaste.

“Your Majesty,” Margaret murmurs, sinking into a curtsy and Madge follows suit, dragging up every ounce of poise and dignity she can.

“Let us get this over with,” Enobaria says, disdain pooling on her tongue and still Madge does not allow her mask to falter. She bites her lip, flutters her lashes at Cato and allows a little gasp as she takes his reluctantly offered hand, her fingers sliding slowly over his. He tugs her up, his grip painful and drags her before the priest, her skin bruising under his hold. He looks at her then, his eyes bright and his lips curling savagely and Madge knows what he wants. He wants a scene, wants tears and pain and winces but she will not give it to him. She digs her nails into his skin and continues to smile, his dimming into anger.

_You wanted a war Cato, so have one_

“I, Cato, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, do pledge here before God and these witnesses that I will take you, Madge Undersee of Bedford and Clarence, to be my lawful wife,” Cato says in a bored, annoyed sort of voice and he is just as determined as she is not to show any pain. Madge shoots him a very quick smile, filling her face with excitement and then takes a deep breath.

“I, Madge Undersee of Bedford and Clarence, do pledge here before God and these witnesses that I will take you, Cato, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, to be my lawful husband.”

The priest blesses them and Cato kisses her to seal the betrothal, catching her lip between his teeth and biting down hard enough to draw blood. She gasps and flinches, his answering smirk full of triumph. Tears sting her eyes but she blinks them away, ignoring the pain growing ever larger in her chest. Cato leads her away, his grip still too hard and _that’s it then. It’s done_.

_I will marry Cato._

_I will be Princess of Wales and then, one day, Queen of England._

_Please, let this be enough to save us._

_Please._

* * *

 

There is no banquet or ball to celebrate, and as much as it should annoy her, Madge is glad.

She returns to her room and sits on the edge of her bed, Cato’s ring heavy on her finger. It is a plain gold ring, nothing special, nothing extravagant, but it feels white hot against her skin. There is an urge in her, an irrational one she knows, to tear it off and fling it out the window, but even if she did, it would not change a thing. She and Cato, they belong to each other now.

_How strange, that out of Henry, Gale and Cato, it is the one I hate the most that has actually become my betrothed_

She sighs and closes her eyes, pressing a finger to her stinging lip. A soft hiss slips past her teeth and without opening her eyes; she knows her finger will come away spotted with red. Cato’s triumphant smirk flashes against her eyelids and something ugly flickers within her. She pushes it down before it can grow and lets Cato have this moment of victory. _A little blood will not be enough to stop me._

The door opens and Madge opens her eyes to see her mother, pale and ghastly and far too thin. Margaret comes over to her daughter and sits beside her, skin and bone arms wrapping her in a tight embrace.

“I love you darling; I love you so so much.”

Madge feels her pain flee, the memory of Cato fading into nothing. She clutches her mother, buries her face in her shoulder and for a moment at least, she feels safe.

* * *

 

(Annie breathes in time with Finnick’s heartbeat, the steady _thump thump_ beneath her ear soothing in a way nothing else could ever be. His fingers are soft as they play with her hair and she never wants to leave this spot, never wants to rise and face the outside world. They are warm and safe tonight, snuggled close beneath the covers of her bed, and she dreads the rising sun, dreads the morning and the war it brings with it. Finnick is leaving her again, off to fight another perilous, bloody battle and tears sting her eyes at the mere thought.

_When will it end?_

“I suppose the Yorkists gave Dunstanburgh away?” he muses and she nods, squeezing her eyes closed.

“Probably. I know Haymitch received your Baynard’s Castle in London.”

Finnick forces a laugh.

“Haymitch, eh? I wonder if he’ll give it back when this is over.”

He is trying to sound light and joking but there is an edge to his voice, a bitter, frightened edge that cuts her to the bone. She clutches him tight and breathes him in, tries to drown herself in the summery soft smell of him. _Run away with me_ , she wants to beg but never would. Instead she counts each and every one of his heartbeats and prays that this separation will be over quicker than the last.

“I love you, Finnick,” she whispers and knows by the way he tightens his hold on her that he understands everything else she is trying to say, all the feelings she can’t quite put in to words.

“And I you, Annie. Always,” he vows and kisses her hair. Tears burn against her cheeks and _oh, how I hate goodbyes_.

_Let this be the final one, please, let this be the last_ )

* * *

 

The fall morning is brittle and cool, the sky clear and the breeze salty with sea air. Madge breathes it in as she stands at her window, her fingers tight around the ledge and her eyes fixed on the great channel glittering in the sunlight before her.

_This is it_

_Today’s the day_

_(be safe Gale, oh be safe my love)_

* * *

 

(Clove wakes in Cato’s arms and stretches with a yawn.

It is early, far earlier than she usually rises and she rolls over to look at Cato, his mouth open and a string of drool dribbling down his chin. On anyone else she would be repulsed, but with Cato she merely shakes her head fondly and wipes it away with her thumb, an odd melancholy suddenly squeezing her chest. She pulls her hand away as if burned and that feeling starts to swallow her, its poison spilling through every artery and vein. It is an alien emotion, one she does not want to feel, and she cannot help but reach out to touch him again, to stroke his jaw, his soft hair, the bare skin of his chest. She can feel his heartbeat in her palm and _how much longer will I have this?_ whispers a traitorous voice in her head.

_Go away_ , she thinks back, falls upon that phantom voice with sharpened knives but for once, it does not work.

_Soon you shan’t have any of this_ , it continues, mocking, gleeful and sounding dangerously like Madge Undersee. Clove cannot bear to look at him anymore, melancholy choking in her throat, and she sits up quickly, her eyes turned to the window. She cannot see the Channel but she knows it’s out there, laughing at both her and Cato. Cato should be sailing out today, as should she, but instead they will stay cooped up here with wretched, foul, infuriating Madge.

(Clove has hated a great many people in her life, indeed she hates far more than she likes, but never has she loathed someone as much as she does Madge Undersee)

Clove knows how to use a sword, is lethal and quick on her feet. She has bested more squires than she can count, matches Cato in every spar and she would ride out to war today, if only that war were on the battlefield and not the bedchamber. She is not afraid of bloodthirsty men or power hungry lords, but Madge, rich blooded, well-mannered, scheming Madge, that is a battle she does not even know how to fight.

Clove is not made to marry a prince, her blood is not high enough, her father nowhere near rich enough and how is she meant to compete with a lofty little tart like Madge? Madge who is destined to marry Cato even though she could never hope to understand him as Clove does. Madge who will sit beside him even though it is Clove that has stood by him all these years. Madge that will rule with him even though _we were made for each other, I know we were_. Madge will take center stage and then what is to stop Clove from being pushed farther and farther aside until she disappears?

(it was easy to be confident before the betrothal, but now she is beginning to understand just how hopeless her situation really is

Cato is hers, has been since they were children but no matter what she does now, their time is running out)

“You’re already up?” comes Cato’s sleepy voice from behind her and Clove curses herself.

“Your dreadful snoring woke me,” she teases though she cannot manage to turn her head and look at him. He sits up and scoots closer, his chest pressed against her back. He kisses her neck as his arms come around her and she would never say it aloud, but she is forever grateful it is only women that wear betrothal rings and not men. She does not think she could stomach the feel of his against her skin.

“You’re tense,” he mumbles and though she does not mean to say it, the words slip out anyway.

“I do not want to be replaced.”

He laughs and she can feel it through her back, but she does not laugh in return. There is nothing funny about this.

“How could you be? I’m yours, you know that.”

She clenches her teeth.

“No, your Madge’s now. You are betrothed Cato, so unless we are blessed by God and she dies, you will marry her. And you will go to her bed and sit on your throne beside her and rejoice in the children she bears you.”

“So?” he asks and she exhales in frustration.

“So, she will do everything she can to win you, too woo, to make you love her!”

She feels him pull away, his hands dropping from her sides.

“And what? You think I will be seduced? After all these years together, you really have so little trust in me?”

She turns, surprised by the hurt in his voice. He glares at her as she meets his eyes.

“Never, not once, have I touched another woman. I have never even wanted to. Do those years of loyalty count for nothing? Am I so low in your eyes that I would throw myself at the first whore that smiles at me?”

He is loud by the end, angry and almost shouting and Clove feels her eyes widen. He is always quick to temper, always ready to yell, but never at her.

“Madge is not just some whore,” she snaps back, shocking herself. She too is fast to rage, but never has she turned it on him.

_Madge is already ruining us_.

“She will be your wife, your queen. She will give you your heir and secure your kingdom. She will wear your crown. She will be at your side, always at your side. And what does that leave me with?” she demands and he recoils, his eyes so wounded she is momentarily short of breath.

“Me. Is that not enough?”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says immediately, realizing now how her words must have sounded.

“Isn’t it?” he demands and throws off the covers. He stands and then, because fury has always been physical with Cato, he picks up a vase and shatters it against the wall. She glares at his back and clambers out of the bed.

“No, it isn’t. If you would let me explain-”

“What is there to explain? You want to be queen. You want to wear a crown, sit on a throne and wield power over the country. I’ve always known that Clove, I just always thought you wanted me more.”

Beneath his rage is sadness and Clove wants to be calm but can’t, her nostrils flaring.

“I do! I want to be queen and I hate that bitch for taking it from me. I should be queen; I should be the powerful one, not her. But that is not my biggest concern. What I meant, you idiot, is that Madge will share things with you I never can. You will not be able to spend as much time with me as you do now, not with your duties and a wife, so I will start to fade. But she, she will be beside you when you greet ambassadors and important visitors. She will birth your heir. She will sit at your side at every banquet, pageant and tournament. You will not be able to be rid of her.

All that time together, all those things you will do with her that you will not with me…what if you begin to realize she is not so awful? She will do everything she can to win you, she will find out just what to say to make you laugh, she will flatter and be interested in every one of your words, will giggle at your every joke. What if you decide you do not loath her anymore and then you begin to see her qualities and all the while I fade a little more? What if from necessity comes admiration? And from that…love?”

He stares at her, stares so long she is afraid he does not believe her.

“I would choose you over any crown, Cato. I am not nearly so concerned about losing a throne as I am about losing you. After everything we have been through, can you really doubt that?”

He curls his hands into fists.

“You doubt me,” he points out. “You truly believe I will toss you aside for Madge.”

“I do not doubt you,” she begins and he opens his mouth to interrupt. She does not give him the chance. “I am just afraid,” she admits and never, not once in her life, has she said that before. Cato blinks in surprise.

“I am afraid, alright? I do not want to lose you. I do not want to think of her touching you, of everyone looking at you and thinking of you as hers. I know I am being unfair, I know you have always been faithful. But I am scared and angry and jealous and I do not know what to do about it. You will have to spend time with her which means less with me and then…” she trails off, unable to finish the thought and he exhales loudly.

“You needn’t be afraid. It does not matter how much time I spend with her, I will never want her more than I want you. She may have my ring, my crown and even my heirs, but you will have me, as you always have.”

“That is easy to say now,” she interrupts and his eyes narrow. She thinks for a moment that he will give up, but he squares his shoulders and assaults her defenses with perfect courage.

“I will sleep in your bed every night no matter how many times I visit hers, I will relish every moment with you, while I dread those with her and it is your counsel I will seek, never hers. You will still be the only one who knows my secrets and it is you I will wish I’m with every time I have to touch her. You will be the one with power over England because I will never care what she wants, what she thinks or what she says. You are who I would choose to rule with, to fight by my side in battle, to marry. She can try her damndest to seduce me, she could be Venus herself and it still would not work. You may not have faith in my constancy Clove, but I do. I am yours, I always have been. No one could take your place and certainly not some foul royal cousin like Madge. If you do not already know that, I don’t know what else to say.”

Clove does not know what to say either, is stunned speechless. Cato is not one for declarations or romance; he laughs at poetry, scorns flowery sentiments and prefers actions to words. This is so unlike him that she cannot answer and he turns away from her to the window.

“Perhaps if you think so little of me I should leave,” he says and Clove smiles then, perhaps wider than she ever has. She is across the room in moments, her arms circling around him.

“How dramatic you are,” she says and kisses his shoulder. He stiffens.

“Now you are mocking me.”

“No,” she says softly, “I am apologizing.”

He turns quickly in her arms; his face blank with surprise, for neither one of them can remember the last time she apologized to anyone.

“You are right, I have nothing to fear. If there is one thing I have always known, it is that we were made for each other. I am sorry for doubting that, even for a moment. You are mine and I am yours, always. If I cannot have faith in that, then I cannot have faith in anything.”

One of his hands weaves through her hair while the other tilts her chin up and she smiles.

(there is still fear of course, there always will be)

(but she does believe in them and she will not bow out graciously to Madge fucking Undersee)

(if Madge wants Cato she will have to fight them both to get him)

(and when they are together, Cato and Clove are invincible)

“Forgive me my momentary lapse in sanity?” she asks and he smirks, her fiery, ardent Cato once again.

“Make it up to me first,” he growls and she laughs as he scoops her up, his mouth hungry as it meets hers. He stumbles back to the bed and Madge Undersee doesn’t matter.

Cato and Clove, they belong together.

That’s the only thing that matters)

* * *

 

It is a crisp, breezy day, the sky a pale, watery gray and the sun a faint yellow smear. Great ships lent by Louis and others bought on loan bob in the harbor, each one swarming with sailors readying for the crossing. The Lancastrian forces stand on the pier, an assortment of English exiles, French troops and mercenaries. Madge shivers and wonders what the people of England will think at the sight of them. _An army of liberation? Or one of conquest?_

Enobaria surveys her troops with cold eyes, looking the very picture of majesty. Her back is straight, her crown sparkles and she is dressed in her very best, all her jewels, a gown of cloth of gold and a mantle lined in soft fur. Madge, Cato and Annie stand just behind her and behind them are the queen’s ladies, Clove’s eyes cutting into Madge’s back like daggers. Madge ignores the prickling in her spine and rubs her hands together to keep them warm, Haymitch stepping forward from the crowd to kneel before Enobaria. All the other men follow suit and the air is heavy, solemn, momentous.

“I promise you, my Queen, we will free King Coriolanus and restore him to his throne,” Haymitch vows, every word turning to ash upon his tongue. Enobaria lifts her chin and glares down at him, her face as hard as iron.

“See that you do, Lord Haymitch. See that you do.”

There is a threat there, a sword held up against his neck but Haymitch does not flinch. A gamble of crowns is always a risk and Haymitch will not throw the dice with an unsteady hand. Enobaria can make all the threats she likes, he already knows the price of failure. Enobaria looks out at the rest of the men then, a fire kindling in her gaze.

“Your king awaits you in England!” she bellows. “Free him from that thieving Yorkist whore and be remembered as heroes!”

The men leap to their feet and cheer, stamp their feet and rattle their swords, their great roar soaring up to the sky and shaking the very heavens.

“Go, men of England! Go forth and save your homeland! For England and King Coriolanus!” she booms and they take up her cry, voices and swords raised to the sun.

“For England!”

“For King Coriolanus!”

Madge stands in silence; her tongue trapped behind teeth clamped tight, and watches as the men board their ships, their chant still ringing through the air. Haymitch shares a long look with her mother just before he steps aboard, Cato scowls and Finnick comes up to Annie beside her, his smile shaking on his lips. He takes both her hands and holds them up to his heart, his brilliant green eyes staring deep into her lovely blue. Madge turns away, feeling as if she has intruded on something private, but she cannot help but catch his whispered words.

“I will return to you Annie, my love. I will be back. And when I am, finally, we will marry. I swear it.”

Those words are so like Gale’s last to her that Madge feels her heart quake, feels the ground shift beneath her feet. She presses his locket against her heart and from the corner of her eye she sees Annie reach up to touch Finnick’s cheek.

“I know Finnick, I have no doubts. You have always come back to me, I know you always will.”

She leans up and they meet in a soft kiss, lingering close for a moment, their eyes closed and breath mingling. Madge shuts her eyes to avoid the sting of tears.

“Come along now son, England awaits us!” the Earl of Oxford calls and Madge opens her eyes in time to watch Finnick clamber aboard the largest of the ships. He stands at the railing, his desperate eyes fixed on Annie, and Boggs rests a hand on his shoulder. Annie covers her mouth with her hands, her eyes glistening with tears and Finnick reaches beneath his doublet to pull out something small, a ring perhaps, on a chain. He kisses it, his eyes never leaving Annie’s, and presses it to his heart.

And even through her tears, Annie smiles.

* * *

 

(“This is it then,” Marvel says with a smirk, something dangerous in his eyes and Glimmer beams, a thrill shaking her bones.

“Oh, I cannot wait,” she trills and flings herself on him, pressing kisses to every inch of his face. His fingers dig into her waist and she shivers with pleasure, hopes he leaves his fingerprints bruised into her skin until they see each other again.

“We are going to win Glimmer,” he breathes, his tongue darting out to caress her ear and she nods, her body glowing with confidence and wicked delight. _Haymitch cheated us of our crown, but he will pay, they’re all going to pay. We have been planning, you wretched fools, and we are going to win._

Marvel kisses her roughly and she sinks into him, excitement like hellfire in her veins.

_In this game of crowns it is us that will emerge victorious my darling_

_us us us_ )

* * *

 

Madge grabs Annie’s hand as the ships push out to sea and knows her grip is bruising. She cannot blink as she watches the fleet head out, their great flags and pennants snapping in the autumn wind. Her heart feels twice its normal size and _this is it, this is really it_.

_Oh God Gale, please please make it out of this okay_

A great purple banner ripples from the rear of the largest ship, Coriolanus’ snarling silver wolf prowling across it. His crown glitters gold in the faint sun and Madge cannot look away, her entire body going cold.

_And that is what we’re fighting for, isn’t it?_

_To unleash that wolf upon England once more._

_Forgive us_


End file.
